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HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

TRANSLATED     BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY 


COUSIN    BE  TIE 


ROBERTS     BROTHERS 


3     SOMERSET     STREET 


BOSTON 

1888 


2\io^ 


CO 


L^5 


£ 


Copyright,  1888, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


•  •  •   ^ 


ffinibergttg  ^rega : 
John  Wilson   and  Son,   Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I.    Wheee  does  not  Passion  Lurk? 1 

II.     Shameful  Disclosures 7 

III.  The  Life  of  a  Noble  Woman 22 

IV.  The   Character  of   a.n  old  Maid;    original, 

AND    YET    NOT    AS     UNCOMMON     AS    ONE    MIGHT 
THINK 37 

V.     The  Young  Maid  and  the  Old  One      ...       52 
VI.    In  which  Pretty  Women  are  seen  to  Flut- 
ter BEFORE   Libertines,  just  as  Dupes  put 
themselves  in  the  way  of  Swindlers    .    .      67 
VII.     The  Story  of  a   Spider  with  too  big  a  Fly 

IN  Her  Net 83 

VIII.     Romance   of   the    Father  and   that   of  the 

Daughter 97 

IX.    In  which  Chance,  Constructing  a  Romance, 
carries  Matters  along  so  Smoothly  that 

the  Smoothness  cannot  Last 113 

X.  Social  Compact  between  Easy  Virtue  and 
Jealous  Celibacy  —  Signed,  but  not  Re- 
corded      127 


vi  Contents. 

Page 

XI.     Transformation  of  Cousin  Bette  .     .     .     140 

XII,     The    Life    and    Opinions    of    Monsieur 

Crevel 150 

XIII.  Last  Attempt  of  Caliban  over  Ariel    .     1G2 

XIV.  In  which  the  Tail-end  of  an  ordinary 

Novel  appears  in  the  very  Middle 
OF  this  too  true,  rather  anacreontic, 
and  terribly  moral  History      .     .    .     177 
XV.    Assets  of  the  firm  Bette  and  Valerie 

—  Marneffe  Account 193 

XVI.    Assets  of  the  firm  Bette  and  Valerie. 

—  Fischer  Account 206 

XVII.     Assets  of  the  Legitimate  Wife     .     .     .     216 

XVIII.     Millions  Redivivus 229 

XIX.     Scenes  of  High  Feminine  Comedy      .     .  210 
XX.    Two  Brothers  of  the  Great  Confrater- 
nity OF  Brotherhoods 255 

XXI.     What  it  is  that  makes  a  Great  Artist  268 
XXII.     An  Artist,  Young  and  a  Pole,  what  else 

could  have  been  Expected  ?  .     .     .     .  285 

XXIIL     The  First  Quarrel  of  Married  Life     .  302 
XXIV.     The    Five    Fathers    of    the    Marneffe 

Church 316 

XXV.     Summary  of  the  History  of  the  Favor- 
ites    330 

XXVI.     A  Summons  with  and  without  Costs      ,  345 

XXVII,     A  Summons  of  Another  Kind    ....  355 

XXVIII.     A  Noble  Courtesan 370 

XXIX.     Conclusion  of  the  Life  and  Opinions  of 

Celestin  Crevel 385 


Contents. 
XXX.     A  BRIEF  Duel  between  Marechal  Hulot, 

COMTE    DE    FoRZHEIM,    AND    HiS   ExCEL- 
LENCY        MONSEIGNEUR       LE      MaRECHAL 

CoTTiN,  Prince  de  Wissembourg,   Due 

d'Orfaj^o,  Minister  of  War  .... 

XXXI.    The  Departure  of  the  Prodigal  Father 

XXXII.    The  Sword  of  Damocles 

XXXIII.  Devils  and   Angels    Harnessed    to  the 

same  Car 

XXXIV.  Vengeance  in  pursuit  of  Valerie      .    . 
XXXV.    A  Dinner-party  of  Lorettes     .... 

XXXVI.    The  Cheap  Parisian  Paradise  of  1810  . 
XXXVII.    Fulfilment  of  Valerie's  Jesting  Proph- 
ecies      

XXXVIII.    Return  of  the  Prodigal  Father  .     .     . 


Vll 
Page 


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418 
439 

456 
479 
495 
507 

522 
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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/cousinbetteOObalzrich 


COUSIN    BETTE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

WHERE    r>OES    NOT   PASSION    LIHIK  ? 

About  the  middle  of  July,  1838,  one  of  those  hack- 
ney carriages  lately  put  into  circulation  along  the 
streets  of  Paris  and  called  milords  was  making  its  way 
through  the  rue  de  I'llniversite,  carrying  a  fat  man  of 
medium  height,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a  captain  of 
the  National  Guard. 

Among  Parisians,  who  are  thought  to  be  so  witt}'  and 
wise,  we  may  find  some  w^ho  fanc}^  they  are  infinitely 
more  attractive  in  uniform  than  in  their  ordinary 
clothes,  and  who  attribute  so  depraved  a  taste  to  the 
fair  sex  that  the}^  imagine  women  are  favorably  im- 
pressed by  a  bear-skin  cap  and  a  militar}^  equipment. 

The  countenance  of  this  captain,  who  belonged  to  the 
second  legion,  wore  an  air  of  satisfaction  with  himself 
which  heightened  the  brillianc\'  of  his  ruddy  complexion 
and  his  somewhat  pufF^'  cheeks.  A  halo  of  content- 
ment, such  as  wealth  acquired  in  business  is  apt  to  place 
around  the  head  of  a  retired  shopkeeper,  made  it  easy 
to  guess  that  he  was  one  of  the  elect  of  Paris,  an  assis- 
tant-mayor of  his  arrondissement  at  the  ver}-  least.     As 

1 


may  be  supposed,  therefore,  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion 
of  honor  was  not  absent  from  his  portl}'  breast,  which 
protruded  with  all  the  swagger  of  a  Prussian  officer. 
Sitting  proud!}'  erect  in  a  corner  of  the  milord^  this 
decorated  being  let  his  e^'es  rove  among  the  pedestrians 
on  the  sidewalk,  who,  in  fact,  often  come  in  for  smiles 
which  are  really  intended  for  beautiful  absent  faces. 

The  7nilord  drew  up  in  that  section  of  the  street 
which  lies  between  the  rue  de  Bellechasse  and  the  rue 
de  Bourgogne,  before  the  door  of  a  large  house  lately 
built  on  part  of  the  courtyard  of  an  old  mansion  with  a 
garden.  The  old  building  had  been  allowed  to  remain, 
and  it  stood  in  its  primitive  condition  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  court3'ard,  now  reduced  in  space  bj'  half  its 
width. 

Judging  by  the  way  the  captain  accepted  the  assist- 
ance of  the  coachman  in  getting  out  of  the  vehicle,  an 
observer  would  have  recognized  a  man  over  fift}'  3'ears 
of  age.  There  are  certain  physical  actions  whose  undis- 
guised heaviness  has  the  indiscretion  of  a  certificate  of 
baptism.  The  captain  drew  a  3'ellow  glove  on  his  right 
hand,  and,  without  making  an}'  inquiiy  at  the  porter's 
lodge,  walked  towards  the  portico  of  the  house  with  an 
air  that  plainly  said,  "She  is  mine!"  The  Parisian 
porter  has  a  knowledgeable  eye  ;  he  never  stops  a  man 
wearing  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion,  dressed  in  blue,  and 
ponderous  of  step  ;  he  knows  the  signs  of  liches  far  too 
w^elL, 

The  ground-floor  apartment  was  occupied  by  IMon- 
sieur  le  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy,  paymaster  under  the 
republic,,  formerly  commissary-general  of  the  army,  and 
at  the  present  time  head  of  the  most  important  depart- 


Cousin    Bette.  3 

ment  in  the  ministry  of  war,  State  councillor,  grand 
officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor,  etc.  This  Baron  Hnlot 
had  lately  taken  the  name  of  d'Ervy,  the  place  of  his 
birth,  to  distinguish  him  from  his  brother,  the  cele- 
brated General  Hiilot,  colonel  of  the  grenadiers  of  the 
Imperial  Guard,  whom  the  Emperor  created  Comte 
de  Forzheim  after  the  campaign  of  1809.  The  elder 
brother,  the  count,  taking  charge  of  his  3'ounger  brother, 
placed  him  with  fatherh'  prudence  in  an  office  at  the 
ministrj'  of  war,  where,  thanks  to  their  double  service, 
the  younger,  Baron  Hulot,  obtained  and  deserved  the 
favor  of  the  Emperor.  In  1807  he  was  made  com- 
missary-general of  the  armies  of  Spain. 

After  ringing  the  bell,  the  bourgeois  captain  made 
desperate  etlbrts  to  pull  his  coat  into  place ;  for  that 
garment  was  as  much  wrinkled  before  as  behind,  under 
the  displacing  action  of  a  pear-shaped  stomach.  Ad- 
mitted as  soon  as  a  servant  in  livery  had  caught  sight 
of  him,  this  important  and  imposing  personage  followed 
the  footman,  who  announced  as  he  opened  the  door  of  a 
salon  :  — 

' '  Monsieur  Crevel !  " 

Hearing  the  name  —  admirably  adapted  to  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  man  who  bore  it  —  a  tall,  blond 
woman,  ver}'  well  preserved,  seemed  to  undergo  an 
electric  shock  and  rose  immediatel3^ 

"  Hortense,  mj^  angel,  go  into  the  garden  with  your 
cousin  Bette,"  she  said  hurriedl}'  to  a  young  lady  who 
was  sitting  by  her,  busy  wdth  some  embroider}-. 

Bowing  gracioush'  to  the  captain,  Mademoiselle 
Hortense  Hulot  disappeared  through  a  glass  door, 
taking  with   her  a  lean    old   maid  who   seemed   older 


4  Cousin  Bette. 

than  the  baroness,  though  she  was  in  fact  five  years 
younger. 

"  It  must  be  somethhig  about  your  marriage,"  whis- 
pered Bette  to  Hortense,  without  seeming  at  all 
offended  b}'  the  manner  in  which  Madame  Hulot  had 
sent  them  awaj',  evidently  considering  her  as  of  no 
account.  The  apparel  of  this  cousin  might  at  a  pinch 
explain  the  want  of  ceremou}-. 

The  old  maid  wore  a  merino  dress  the  color  of  dried 
raisins,  of  a  peculiar  cut  made  with  pipings  which  dated 
from  the  Restoration,  a  worked  collar  worth  perhaps 
three  francs,  a  straw  bonnet  of  sewn  braid  trimmed  with 
blue  satin  ribbon  edged  with  straw,  such  as  can  be  seen 
on  the  old-clothes  women  in  the  markets.  A  glance  at 
her  shoes,  whose  make  betrayed  a  dealer  of  the  lowest 
order,  would  have  led  a  stranger  to  hesitate  before 
bowino-  to  cousin  Bette  as  a  member  of  the  familv  ;  in 
fact,  her  appearance  was  that  of  a  dressmaker  employed 
b}'  the  day.  Nevertheless,  the  old  maid  made  a  friendh' 
little  bow  to  Monsieur  Crevel  before  she  left  the  room, 
to  which  that  personage  replied  by  a  sign  full  of 
meaning. 

"  You  will  come  to-morrow,  will  j'ou  not?  "  he  said. 

"Are  3'ou  sure  there  will  be  no  compan}^?"  asked 
Bette. 

"  My  children  and  3'ourself,  that  will  be  all,"  replied 
the  visitor. 

"  Ver}^  good,  then  3-ou  may  relv  on  seeing  me,"  she 
said  as  she  left  the  room. 

"  Madame,  I  am  here,  at  your  orders,"  said  the 
militia  captain,  again  bowing  to  the  baroness  and  cast- 
ing  upon  her  a   glance  such   as  Tartuffe   bestows   on 


Cousin  Bette.  5 

Elmire  when  some  provincial  actor  thinks  it  neces- 
saiy  to  explain  the  part  to  a  Poitiers  or  Grenoble 
audience. 

"  If  you  will  follow  me,  monsieur,  we  shall  be  more 
at  our  ease  in  discussing  matters  here  than  in  the 
salon,"  said  Madame  Plulot,  leading  the  wa}'  to  an 
adjoining  parlor  which  in  the  present  arrangement  of 
the  house  was  used  as  a  cardroom. 

This  room  was  separated  by  a  slight  partition  from  a 
boudoir  which  had  a  window  opening  on  the  garden, 
and  Madame  Hulot  left  Monsieur  Crevel  alone  for  a 
few  moments,  thinking  it  wise  to  shut  the  window  and 
the  door  of  the  boudoir  lest  any  one  should  attempt  to 
overhear  them.  She  also  took  the  precaution  to  shut  the 
glass  door  of  the  large  salon,  smiling  as  she  did  so  at 
her  daughter  and  cousin  who  were  settling  themselves 
in  an  old  kiosk  at  the  further  end  of  the  garden. 
On  returning  she  was  careful  to  leave  the  door  of  the 
cardroom  open,  so  that  she  might  hear  the  opening  of  the 
salon  door  in  case  any  one  entered  that  room.  As  slie 
went  and  came  on  these  errands  the  baroness,  conscious 
that  she  was  under  no  ej'e  for  the  moment,  allowed  her 
face  to  tell  her  thoughts  ;  and  any  one  who  had  seen 
her  then  would  have  felt  something  akin  to  terror  at 
the  agitation  she  betrayed.  But  as  she  came  through 
the  door  between  the  salon  and  the  cardroom  she 
veiled  her  face  with  that  impenetrable  reserve  which  all 
women,  even  tiie  most  candid,  seem  able  to  call  up  at 
will. 

During  the  time  occupied  by  these  preparations, 
which  were,  to  sa}'  the  least,  singular,  the  militia  cap- 
tain looked  about  him  at  the  furniture  of  the  room  in 


6  Cousin  Bette. 

which  he  sat.  As  he  noticed  the  silk  curtains,  formerly 
red,  now  faded  into  purple  by  the  action  of  the  sun, 
and  worn  along  the  edges  of  each  fold  ;  at  the  carpet 
from  which  the  colors  had  vanished  ;  at  the  defaced 
furniture  with  its  tarnished  gilding  and  silk  coverings 
stained  and  spotted  and  worn  into  strips,  expressions 
of  contempt,  self-satisfaction,  and  assurance  succeeded 
each  other  artlessl}'  on  the  flat  features  of  the  parvenu 
merchant.  He  looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror  over  the 
top  of  an  old  Empire  clock,  and  was  engaged  in  taking 
stock  of  his  own  person  when  the  rustle  of  a  silk  dress 
announced  the  return  of  the  baroness ;  he  at  once  re- 
covered position. 

After  seating  herself  on  a  little  sofa,  which  must 
have  been  very  handsome  as  far  back  as  1809,  the 
baroness  pointed  to  a  chair,  the  arms  of  which  ended  in 
heads  of  sphinxes  lacquered  in  bronze,  —  the  surface  of 
which  had  peeled  oft'  in  several  places  leaving  the  wood 
bare,  —  and  made  a  sign  to  Crevel  to  be  seated. 

"The  precautions  which  you  are  taking,  madame, 
are  naturalh'  a  delightful  augury  to  a  —  " 

"  — lover,"  she  said,  interrupting  him. 

"  The  word  is  feeble,"  he  repUed,  placing  his  right 
hand  upon  his  heart,  and  rolling  his  eyes  in  a  manner 
which  would  have  made  any  woman  laugh  if  she  had 
seen  their  expression  with  a  mind  at  ease.  "Lover! 
lover  !  sa}',  rather,  one  bewitched  !  " 


Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER   II. 


SHAJIEFUL    DISCL0SUKP:S. 


"  Listen  to  me,  Monsieur  Crevel,"  said  the  baroness, 
too  serious  to  laugh;  "you  are  fifty  years  old,  —  ten 
years  younger  than  Monsieur  Hulot,  I  admit ;  but  the 
follies  of  a  woman  of  m}'  age  must  find  their  justifica- 
tion in  3'outh,  beaut}',  celebrity,  personal  merit,  or 
some  one  of  those  distinctions  which  dazzle  her  so 
much  as  to  make  her  forget  everything,  even  her  own 
age.  You  may  have  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  francs, 
but  3'our  3'ears  counterbalance  your  fortune  ;  and  of  all 
else  that  a  woman  requires  you  have  nothing  —  " 

"Except  love,"  exclaimed  the  captain,  rising  and 
coming  towards  her  ;  "  a  love  which  — '' 

"No,  monsieur,  obstinacy!  "  said  the  baroness,  in- 
terrupting him  to  put  an  end  to  his  absurdity. 

"Yes,  the  obstinacy  of  love,"  he  replied,  "and 
something  better  still,  rights  —  " 

"Rights!"  exclaimed  Madame  Hulot,  dilating  with 
contempt,  defiance,  and  indignation.  "But,"  she  re- 
sumed, "if  we  continue  in  this  tone  there  wdll  be  no 
end  to  it.  I  did  not  ask  you  to  come  here  to  talk  of  a 
matter  which  has  alread}'  banished  you  from  this  house 
in  spite  of  the  connection  between  our  families." 

"  I  believed  you  did  —  " 


8  Cousin  Bette. 

"  You  persist?  "  she  said.  "  Can  3'ou  not  see,  mon- 
sieur, b}'  tlie  light  and  easy  manner  with  whicli  I  speak 
of  love  and  lovers  and  all  that  is  most  perilous  for  a 
woman  to  discuss,  that  I  am  perfectl}^  confident  in 
mj'self  and  m}-  own  virtue  ?  I  fear  nothing ;  not  even 
misconception  for  being  shut  in  with  3'ou  here.  Is  that 
the  conduct  of  a  yielding  woman  ?  You  know  perfectly 
well  wh}'  I  have  sent  for  you." 

"No,  I  do  not,  madame,"  replied  Crevel.  He  bit 
his  lips,  and  resumed  an  attitude. 

"  Well,  I  will  be  brief,  and  shorten  our  mutual  an- 
noyance," said  the  baroness  looking  straight  at  him. 

Crevel  made  an  ironical  bow  in  which  a  tradesman 
would  have  recognized  the  air  and  graces  of  a  quondam 
commercial  traveller. 

"  Our  son  married  your  daughter  —  " 

"  And  if  it  were  to  do  over  again  —  "  said  Crevel. 

"  It  would  not  be  done  at  all,"  she  continued  hastih'. 
"I  dare  say  not.  But  3'Ou  have  nothing  to  complain 
of.  My  son  is  not  onh''  one  of  the  first  law^'ers  in 
Paris,  but  he  is  now  a  deput}',  and  his  opening  career 
in  the  Chamber  is  brilliant  enough  to  lead  one  to  expect 
that  he  will  some  day  be  in  the  ministr3\  Victorin 
has  been  twice  appointed  to  draft  important  measures, 
and  he  could  now  be,  if  he  chose,  attorne3'-general  of 
the  Court  of  Appeals.  Therefore  when  3'ou  give  me 
to  understand  that  you  have  a  son-in-law  without 
prospects  —  " 

"A  son-in-law  whom  I  am  obliged  to  support/'  re- 
torted Crevel,  "  is  even  worse,  madame.  Of  the  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  which  constituted  m3'  daugh- 
ter's  marriage   portion,    two   hundred   thousand   have 


Cousin  Bette.  9 

alreacl}^  disappeared,  the  Lord  knows  where  !  —  to  pay 
3-our  sou's  debts,  to  furnish  his  house  gorgeously  ;  a 
house,  b}'  the  bj'e,  worth  five  hundred  thousand  francs, 
which  brings  him  in  a  rental  of  barely  fifteen  thousand, 
because  he  chooses  to  occupy  the  best  part  of  it.  Be- 
sides, he  still  owes  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand 
francs  of  the  purchase  mone}' ;  the  rental  he  gets  hardly 
covers  the  interest  of  the  debt.  This  3'ear  I  have  been 
obliged  to  give  ray  daughter  something  like  twenty 
thousand  francs  to  enable  her  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
And  my  son-in-law,  who  formerlj'  earned  thirtj'  thou- 
sand francs  b}'  his  profession,  is  now  neglecting  the 
Palais  de  Justice  for  the  Chamber  of  Deputies." 

"  All  this,  Monsieur  Crevel,  is  quite  beside  our 
present  business  and  leads  awa}'  from  it.  But  to  end 
what  we  are  saying,  —  if  mj^  son  enters  the  ministrj- 
and  obtains  your  appointment  as  officer  of  the  Legion 
of  honor  and  councillor  of  the  municipality-,  you  —  the 
late  perfumer  —  will  have  nothing  to  complain  of." 

"  Ha,  there  it  is,  madame  !  I  'm  a  perfumer,  a  shop- 
keeper, a  retail  vender  of  almond-paste,  eau  de  Por- 
tugal^ cephalic  oil,  and  I  ought  to  feel  greatly  honored 
b}'  the  marriage  of  m}-  onh'  daughter  to  the  son  of 
Monsieur  le  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy  ;  my  daughter  will  be 
a  baroness  —  yes,  yes,  that's  regenc}^,  Louis  XY.,  ceil- 
de-boeuf^  and  all  the  rest  of  it !  I  love  Celestine  as  any 
man  would  love  an  only  daughter.  I  love  her  so  much 
that  to  avoid  giving  her  a  brother  or  a  sister  I  have 
borne  all  the  inconveniences  of  beins:  a  widower  in 
Paris,  —  and  in  the  vigor  of  m}^  age,  madame.  But  let 
me  tell  you  that  in  spite  of  this  immoderate  love  for  mj- 
daughter  I  shall  not  impair  ni}-  property  for  the  sake  of 


10  Cousin  Bette. 

your  son,  whose  expenditures  are  b}'  no  means  clear  to 
me,  — to  me,  an  old  business  man,  madame." 

"  Monsieur,  there  is  another  business  man  at  this 
very  moment  in  the  ministry  of  commerce,  —  Mon- 
sieur Popinot,  formerl}^  a  druggist  in  the  rue  des 
Lombards." 

"  And  my  very  good  friend,"  said  the  ex-perfumer; 
"  for  I,  Celestin  Crevel,  formerly  head-clferk  of  Mon- 
sieur Cesar  Birotteau,  I  bought  the  business  of  the 
said  Birotteau,  father-in-law  of  Popinot,  who  was  a 
mere  underling  in  that  establishment.  In  fact,  it  is  he 
who  often  reminds  me  of  it ;  for,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
is  not  proud  with  men  of  good  position  and  an  income 
of  sixty  thousand  francs." 

'*  Well,  monsieur,  the  ideas  which  you  choose  to 
qualif}''  b}^  the  term  '  regency '  are  certainly-  out  of 
date  at  a  time  when  men  are  judged  by  their  personal 
merits ;  and  it  was  b}'  those  you  judged  in  marrying 
your  daughter  to  my  son." 

"You  never  knew  how  that  marriage  came  about!" 
cried  Crevel.  "Cursed  life  of  a  bachelor  !  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  m}"  dissipations  Celestine  would  be  Vicomtesse 
Popinot  at  this  moment !  " 

"  Once  more,  do  not  let  us  recriminate  about  matters 
past  and  gone,"  said  the  baroness  gravely.  "  I  wish  to 
speak  to  3'ou  on  a  subject  about  which  your  strange  con- 
duct gives  me  cause  for  complaint.  My  daughter  Hor- 
tense  might  have  married  well ;  the  marriage  depended 
wholl}'  on  you ;  I  believed  3'ou  were  actuated  b}-  gen- 
erous sentiments ;  I  thought  you  would  have  done 
justice  to  a  woman  w^ho  has  no  feeling  in  her  heart 
except  for  her  husband,  and  would  have  spared  her  the 


Cousin  Bette.  11 

necessit}'  of  receiving  a  man  whose  attentions  com- 
promise her ;  in  short,  I  full}'  expected  you  would 
endeavor,  for  the  honor  of  the  famil}'  to  which  you  are 
allied,  to  further  my  daughter's  marriage  with  Monsieur 
Lebas, — and  yet  it  is  you,  monsieur,  who  have  pre- 
vented it !  " 

"Madame,"  replied  the  ex-perfumer,  "  I  have  acted 
as  an  honest  man.  I  was  asked  if  the  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  of  Mademoiselle  Hortense's  marriage 
portion  would  undoubtedly  be  paid.  I  answered  ver- 
batim as  follows  :  '  I  cannot  guarantee  it ;  my  son- 
in-law,  to  whom  the  Hulots  gave  the  same  sum  at  the 
time  of  his  marriage,  had  debts  ;  and  I  believe  that  if 
Monsieur  Hulot  d'Ervy  died  to-morrow,  his  widow 
would  n't  have  the  wherewithal  to  bu}'  bread.'  That 's 
what  I  said,  my  lady." 

"  AYould  you  have  said  it,"  demanded  Madame  Hulot, 
looking  fixedl}'  at  Crevel,  "  if  I  had  forgotten  my  duty 
to  my  husband  —  " 

"I  should  have  had  no  right  to  sa}-  it,  dear  Adeline," 
cried  this  remarkable  lover,  cutting  short  her  words  ;  "  in 
fact,  30U  could  then  have  taken  the  dot  out  of  my 
purse." 

Adding  deeds  to  words  the  portly  Crevel  dropped  on 
one  knee  and  kissed  Madame  Hulot's  hand,  mistaking 
her  silent  horror  at  his  speech  for  hesitation. 

"Buy  my  daughter's  happiness  at  the  price  of  — 
Rise,  monsieur,  or  I  ring  for  the  servants." 

The  ex-perfumer  rose  with  some  difficulty.  That 
very  circumstance  made  him  furious  as  he  once  more 
fell  into  position.  Nearly  ever}'  man  cheiishes  an  at- 
titude which  sets  off,  as  he  thinks,  the  personal  ad  van- 


12  Cousin  Bette. 

tages  with  which  Nature  has  gifted  him.  In  Crevel 
this  attitude  consisted  in  crossing  his  arms  Uke  Na- 
poleon, putting  his  head  at  a  three-quarter  profile,  and 
casting  his  glance,  as  the  painters  show  in  their  portraits 
of  the  Emperor,  to  the  far  horizon. 

"  The  idea,"  he  cried,  with  well  acted  anger,  "  of  her 
keeping  her  silh'  faith  in  a  libert  —  " 

"  —  in  a  husband,  monsieur,  who  is  worthy  of  it," 
said  Madame  Hulot,  interrupting  Crevel  before  he  could 
get  out  a  word  she  did  not  choose  to  hear. 

"  Now  look  here,  madame ;  you  have  written  to  me 
to  come  here,  3'ou  ask  the  reasons  of  m}'  conduct,  j'ou 
drive  me  to  extremities  with  3'our  empress  airs,  3'our 
disdain,  3'our  —  3'Our  —  contempt.  An}-  one  would 
think  I  was  a  negro !  I  repeat  what  I  said,  and  you 
maj'  believe  me,  I  have  the  right  to  make  love  to  3'Ou 
—  because  —  but  no,  I  love  3'ou  well  enough  to  hold 
my  tongue." 

"  You  can  speak  out,  monsieur :  I  am  all  but  fortj'- 
eight  3'ears  old  and  not  absurdly  prudish :  I  can  listen 
to  what  you  have  to  sa3\" 

"  Well,  will  3'ou  give  me  3'Our  word  as  an  honest 
woman — for  3-ou  are,  so  much  the  worse  for  me,  an 
honest  woman  —  that  you  will  never  divulge  m3"  name, 
and  never  sa3^  that  I  have  told  3'ou  this  secret  ?  " 

"  If  that  is  3'our  condition,  I  will  swear  to  tell  no  one, 
not  even  my  husband,  the  name  of  the  person  from  whom 
I  have  heard  the  enormities  3"0u  are  about  to  tell  me." 

"  It  concerns  you  and  3^our  husband  —  " 

Madame  Hulot  turned  pale. 

''Ha!  if  you  still  love  that  Hulot,  I  shall  hurt  3'our 
feelings.     Would  3-ou  rather  I  held  my  tongue  ?  " 


Cousin  Bette.  13 

"Speak,  monsieur;  since  voii  wish  to  explain  the 
extraordinary  declarations  3'on  persist  in  making  to  me, 
and  the  anno^'ance  3-ou  cause  a  woman  of  m}*  age  whose 
sole  desire  is  to  marr3'  her  daughter  and  then  —  die  in 
peace." 

"  There  !  you  admit  you  are  very  unhapp3\" 

"  I,  monsieur?" 

"Yes,  beautiful  and  noble  creature,"  cried  C  revel ; 
"  3'ou  have  suffered  too  much." 

"Monsieur,  be  silent  and  leave  the  room;  or  else 
speak  in  a  proper  manner." 

"  Do  3'ou  know,  madame,  how  and  where  it  is  that 
Monsieur  Hulot  and  I  are  intimate?  —  amonsj  our 
mistresses,  madame." 

"  Oh,  monsieur  —  " 

"  Among  our  mistresses,"  repeated  Crevel  in  a  melo- 
dramatic tone, — abandoning  his  attitude  to  make  a 
flourish  with  his  right  hand. 

"Well,  what  then,  monsieur?"  said  the  baroness 
quietl}',  to  Crevel's  utter  bewilderment. 

Seducers  with  petty  motives  never  understand  a 
noble  soul. 

"  I,  who  am  a  widower  for  the  last  five  3'ears,"  re- 
sumed Crevel,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  about  to  relate  a 
histor}',  "not  wishing,  in  the  interests  of  m}'  daughter 
whom  I  idolize,  to  remarr3',  and  not  willing  to  have 
questionable  connections  in  m3'  own  house,  —  though 
indeed  I  had  a  ver3'  pretty  dcmie  de  comptoir,  —  I  set  up, 
as  the3'  say,  in  a  house  of  her  own,  a  little  sewing-girl, 
fifteen  years  of  age  and  wonderfulh'  prettv,  with  whom, 
to  tell  3'ou  the  truth,  madame,  I  became  desperateh'  in 
love.     I  sent  for  my  own  aunt,  the  sister  of  m3'  mother ; 


14  Cousin  Bette. 

I  brought  her  from  my  birtliplace  to  live  with  this 
charmhig  little  creature  and  keep  her  as  virtuous  as 
possible  under  the  —  the  —  what  shall  I  sa}^?  —  illicit 
circumstances.  The  little  girl,  whose  musical  vocation 
was  evident,  had  masters,  and  lots  of  education  was 
put  into  her,  —  in  fact  I  was  obliged  to  keep  her  occu- 
pied. Besides,  I  wished  to  be  her  father,  her  benefac- 
tor, and  not  to  mince  words,  her  lover  all  at  once  ;  to 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone,  to  do  a  good  action  and 
keep  a  little  friend.  Well,  I  was  happy  for  five  3'ears. 
The  child  had  one  of  those  voices  which  make  the  for- 
tune of  a  theatre ;  I  can't  describe  it  better  than  to 
sa}'  she  was  Dnprez  in  petticoats.  It  cost  me  two 
thousand  francs  a  year  solel}'  to  make  a  singer  of  her. 
She  made  me  fanatico  about  music ;  I  took  a  box  at 
the  opera  for  her  and  another  for  my  daughter,  and  I 
went  alternatelj'  one  night  with  Celestine  and  the  next 
with  Joseph  a  —  " 

"  Josepha  !  the  famous  singer?" 

"  Yes,  madame,"  replied  Crevel,  puffing  with  self- 
conceit,  "  the  celebrated  Josepha  owes  everything  to 
me.  At  last,  when  the  little  thing  had  got  to  be  twenty 
years  old,  and  I  felt  she  was  attached  to  me  for  life,  I 
wanted,  out  of  the  kindness  of  my  heart,  to  give  her  a 
little  amusement.  So  I  introduced  her  to  a  pretty  little 
actress  named  Jenny  Cadine,  whose  career  had  a  cer- 
tain likeness  to  her  own.  This  actress  had  a  protector, 
a  man  who  had  brought  her  up  from  childhood  with 
great  care.     It  was  your  husband,  Baron  Hulot  —  " 

"I  know  all  that,  monsieur,"  said  the  baroness  in  a 
calm  and  equable  tone  of  voice. 

"Ah,  bah!"    cried  Crevel,  more    and    more   taken 


Cousin  Bette.  15 

aback.  '•  But  do  \o\\  know  that  3'our  monster  of  a  hus- 
band has  ijrotected  Jenn}'  Cadine  ever  since  she  was 
thirteen  years  old  ?  " 

"  Well,  monsieur,  what  next?  "said  Madame  Hulot. 

"  As  Jenny  Cadine/'  resumed  the  ex-perfumer,  "  and 
Josepha  were  both  twent}'  before  they  knew  each  other, 
the  baron  played  the  part  of  Louis  XV.  with  Made- 
moiselle de  Romans  ;  and  you  were  twelve  years  younger 
than  you  are  now." 

'•Monsieur,  I  have  my  own  reasons  for  giving  Mon- 
sieur Hulot  his  libert}'." 

"  That  falsehood,  madame,  will  doubtless  wipe  out 
your  sins  and  open  to  3'ou  the  gates  of  Paradise,"  said 
Crevel  with  a  shrewd  glance  that  brought  the  color  into 
her  cheeks.  "  Tell  it,  adored  and  saintl}'  woman,  to 
others,  but  not  to  an  old  fox  like  me  who  have  had  too 
man}-  little  suppers  in  company  with  3'our  scoundrel  of 
a  husband  not  to  know  your  true  value.  I  have  often 
heard  him  when  half-drunk  burst  forth  about  your  per- 
fections and  reproach  himself.  Oh,  I  know  you  well ; 
you  are  an  angel.  Between  j^ou  and  a  girl  of  twent^^  a 
libertine  might  hesitate  —  I  do  not." 

' '  Monsieur !  " 

"  AYell,  I'll  sa}'  no  more.  But  you  ought  to  be 
told,  saint  of  a  woman,  that  husbands  when  thej'  are 
drunk  tell  a  great  man}'  things  about  their  wives  to 
their  mistresses,  who  shriek  with  laughter  —  " 

Tears  of  shame  rolled  from  Madame  Hulot's  beautiful 
e3'es  and  stopped  the  militia  captain  in  the  full  tide  of 
his  remarks  ;  he  even  forgot  his  attitude. 

"  I  resume,"  he  said  presentl}-.  "We  are  cronies, 
the  baron  and  T,  through  these  girls.     The  baron,  like 


16  Cousin    Bette. 

all  vicious  men,  is  extremeh'  amiable,  a  down  right  good 
fellow.  Oh,  I  liked  him,  the  rogue  !  He  had  ways  — 
but  there,  there,  a  truce  to  recollections ;  we  were  like 
brothers.  The  scamp,  with  his  regenc}'  ideas,  tried  to 
make  me  as  bad  as  himself;  he  preached  Saint- 
Simonism  in  the  matter  of  women,  tried  to  give  me  the 
notions  of  a  great  lord,  of  an  aristocrat  dyed'  in  the 
wool ;  but  3'ou  see,  I  really  loved  mj^  little  Josepha  and 
would  have  married  her  if  I  had  n't  been  afraid  of  chil- 
dren to  injure  Celestine's  interests.  Between  two  old 
papas,  friends  —  and  we  were  such  friends  !  —  don't 
you  think  it  was  very  natural  that  we  should  think  of 
marrying  our  respective  children  ?  Three  months  after 
the  marriage  of  ni}^  Celestine  to  3-our  son,  Hulot, — I 
don't  know  how  I  can  utter  the  villain's  name,  for  he 
has  deceived  us  both,  madame  !  —  well,  the  wretch  car- 
ried off  m}'  little  Josepha.  He  knew  he  was  supplanted 
by  a  councillor  of  state,  and  also  by  an  artist,  in  the 
good  graces  of  Jenny  Cadine  (whose  successes  were 
really  stupendous)  ;  and  so  he  took  awaj'  from  me  my 
poor  little  mistress,  a  love  of  a  woman,  —  but  you  have 
often  seen  her  at  the  Italian  opera,  where  he  got 
her  a  situation  on  the  strength  of  his  name.  Your 
husband  is  not  as  good  a  manager  as  I,  who  keep 
accounts  and  rule  my  expenses  as  regular  as  a  sheet 
of  music-paper.  Jenny  Cadine  made  a  hole  in  his 
means,  for  she  cost  him  very  nearly  thirty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  but  now,  —  and  3'ou  had  better  know 
it,  —  he  is  ruining  himself  for  Josepha.  Josepha,  ma- 
dame, is  a  Jewess  ;  her  name  is  Mirah,  the  anagram  of 
Hiram,  a  Hebrew  sign  by  which  she  can,  if  necessary, 
be  identified  ;  for  I  made  inquiries  and  found  she  was 


Cousin   Bette.  17 

the  natural  daughter  of  a  rich  German  Jew,  a  banker, 
who  had  abandoned  ller.  The  theatre,  and  above  all, 
the  advice  and  instruction  of  Jenny  Cadine,  Madame 
Schontz,  Malaga,  Carabine,  and  others,  have  taught 
her  how  to  make  the  most  of  old  men  ;  and  the  little 
thing  wliom  I  had  been  keeping  in  a  decent  and  not 
costl}'  fashion  has  now  developed  the  instinct  of  the 
early  Jews  for  gew-gaws  and  jewels  and  the  golden  calf. 
The  celebrated  singer,  eager  after  mone}',  wants  to 
be  rich,  and  verj-  rich.  But  she  is  extremely  careful 
not  to  lose  a  penn}'  of  what  is  spent  on  her.  She  began 
b}'  trying  her  hand  on  Monsieur  Hulot.  and  she  plucked 
him,  oh,  did  n't  she  pluck  him  !  picked  him  clean,  as 
you  might  say.  The  luckless  fellow  has  tried  to  make 
head  against  a  Keller  and  the  Marquis  d'Esgrignon, 
both  madl}^  in  love  with  Josepha,  not  to  speak  of  all 
the  unknown  idolators  ;  but  now  he  is  going  to  find 
himself  cut  out  and  sent  adrift  b}'  that  little  duke  so 
powerfully  rich  who  patronizes  art  —  what's  his  name? 
—  a  dwarf — ah!  the  Duke  d'Herouville.  The  little 
man  is  determined  to  have  Josepha  all  to  himself; 
everybody  is  talking  of  it,  but  your  husband  has  not  3'et 
found  it  out ;  the  lover,  like  the  husband,  is  the  last  man 
to  get  at  the  facts.  Now  don't  you  see  my  rights  ?  Your 
husband,  my  dear  lady,  has  deprived  me  of  my  happi- 
ness, of  the  only  happiness  I  have  had  since  my  widower- 
hood.  Yes,  if  I  had  n't  had  the  misfortune  to  meet  that 
old  driveller,  I  should  still  have  Josepha  ;  for,  don't  3'ou 
see,  I  should  never  have  put  her  on  the  stage  ;  she  'd 
have  remained  in  obscurit}',  virtuous  after  a  fashion,  and 
mine  onl^'.  Oh,  if  you  had  seen  her  eight  years  ago  !  — 
slender  and  lithe,  with  the  golden  skin,  as  they  say,  of 

2 


18  Cousin  Bette. 

an  Andalusian,  black  hair  sliining  like  satin,  an  e3'e 
that  darted  lightning  through  its  brown  lashes ;  the 
elegance  of  a  duchess  in  her  gestures,  the  modest^'  of  a 
poor  girl,  the  simplicity  of  an  honest  one,  and  the  grace 
of  a  young  doe  !  It  is  your  husband's  fault  that  all 
this  prettiness,  this  purit3',  has  turned  into  a  regular 
wolf-trap,  a  deco}',  a  snare, — the  qreen  of  impurity, 
for  that's  what  they  call  her." 

The  ex-perfumer  actually  wiped  his  ej'es  in  which 
were  a  few  tears.  The  sincerit}'  of  his  grief  roused 
Madame  Hulot  from  the  rever^'  into  which  she  had 
fallen. 

"  I  ask  you,  madame,  how  is  it  possible  at  fiftj'-two 
years  of  age  to  get  another  such  treasure?  At  that 
time  of  life  love  costs  thirty  thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  —  I 
know  the  sum  through  3'our  husband,  —  but  I  love  Ce- 
lestine  too  well  to  ruin  her.  AVhen  I  saw  you  at  the 
first  evening  party  to  which  you  invited  us,  I  could 
not  comprehend  how  that  scoundrel  of  a  Hulot  could 
take  up  with  a  Jenny  Cadine.  You  are  like  an  em- 
press ;  in  my  eyes  you  are  only  thirt}' ;  3'ou  seem  to 
me  3'oung ;  you  are  beautiful.  On  my  word  of  honor, 
I  was  smitten  that  verj^  first  day,  and  I  said  to  myself: 
'  If  I  did  n't  have  my  little  Josepha,  and  that  old 
Hulot  abandons  his  wife,  she  would  fit  me  like  a  glove' 

—  Ah,  beg  pardon;  the  shop  does  sometimes  get  the 
better  of  me !  and  that  is  one  reason  why  1  have 
never  aspired  to  be  a  legislator.  So,  when  I  found 
how  basely  the  baron  had  deceived  me,  —  for  between 
such  old  fellows  our  mistresses  should  have  been  sacred, 

—  I  swore  that  I  would  take  his  wife  away  from  him. 
That's  justice.     The  baron  can't  complain:  lean  act 


Cousin   Bette.  19 

with  impunity.  You  turned  me  out  of  your  h'^nse  like 
a  mangy  cur  at  the  first  words  I  uttered  abor^  '.e  state 
of  my  heart.  That  redoubled  my  love,  m}'  obstinacy'  if 
you  like  it  better,  and  3'ou  will  certainh'  be  mine." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know  liow ;  but  so  it  will  be.  Let  me  tell 
30U,  madame,  that  an  old  fool  of  a  perfumer  —  a  retired 
perfumer  —  who  has  only  one  idea  in  his  head  is  much 
stronger  than  a  clever  man  who  has  a  thousand.  I  'm 
craz}'  about  3'ou  ;  and,  besides,  you  are  m}^  revenge,  — 
it  is  just  as  if  I  had  two  loves  !  You  see  I  speak  openly, 
like  a  determined  man,  as  I  am.  You  ma}'  say,  if  you 
please,  '  I  will  never  be  yours  ! '  I  answer,  coolly,  that  I 
am  plasing  above-board,  and  3'ou  will  be  mine  in  a 
given  time.  You  ma}^  be  fift\^  3'ears  old  before  that 
time  comes,  but  some  da}'  3'ou  will  be  my  mistress.  I 
expect  anything  and  everything  through  your  hus- 
band's —  " 

Madame  Hulot  cast  such  an  agonized  look  of  terror 
on  the  vulgar  computer  of  her  fate  that  he  stopped 
short,  thinking  she  might  lose  her  senses. 

"  You  forced  me  to  sa3'  this;  you  have  insulted  me 
with  3'our  contempt ;  you  have  defied  me,  and  now  I 
have  spoken  out,"  he  said,  feeling  it  necessary  to  defend 
the  brutalit3'  of  his  last  words. 

"Oh,  m3'  daughter,  m3'  daughter!"  cried  the  poor 
woman,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"  Ah,  I  knov>'  no  pit3^ !  "  resumed  Crevel.  "  The  da}^ 
when  Josepha  was  taken  from  me  I  was  like  a  tigress 
deprived  of  her  cubs, — I  was  like  you,  as  you  are  at 
this  moment.  Your  daughter !  why,  she  is  the  means 
bv  which  I  shall  win  vou  !    You  can't  marry  her  without 


20  Cousin  Bette, 

my  help  !     Mademoiselle  Hortense  is  veiy  handsome, 
but  she  must  have  a  dot." 

"  Alas  !  3'es,"  said  the  baroness,  wiping  her  e3'es. 

"  Well,  then,  go  and  ask  your  baron  for  ten  thousand 
francs  a  3'ear,"  said  Crevel,  resuming  his  attitude. 

He  waited  a  moment  like  a  singer  who  counts  a  bar. 

"If  he  had  them  he  would  give  them  to  some  girl 
who  will  replace  Josepha,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  score. 
"  Can  he  be  stopped  in  his  present  career?  No,  he  is 
too  fond  of  women,  —  there  ought  to  be  a  medium  in  all 
things,  as  our  present  king  says.  Besides,  vanity  counts 
for  something.  He  is  a  handsome  man,  and  he  would 
take  tlie  bed  from  under  you  to  serve  his  pleasures. 
Why,  everything  is  going  to  pieces  here  already- !  Since 
I  have  known  3'ou,  30U  have  never  been  able  to  renew 
the  furniture  of  your  salon.  The  slits  in  these  stuffs 
actually  vomit  the  word  '  needy.'  What  prospective 
son-in-law  would  n't  be  scared  b}-  such  ill-concealed 
proofs  of  the  worst  of  all  poverty,  —  that  of  decayed 
gentlefolks?  I  have  been  a  shopkeeper,  and  I  know. 
There  's  nothing  like  the  shop-keeping  eye  for  seeing 
real  riches  and  detecting  counterfeits.  You  have  n't  a 
penny !"  he  added  in  a  low  voice;  "it  shows  every- 
where, even  in  your  footman's  coat.  Do  you  wish  me 
to  reveal  certain  awful  secrets  which  are  hidden  from 
you?" 

"Monsieur,"  said  Madame  Hulot,  whose  handker- 
chief was  wet  with  tears,  "  say  no  more." 

"Well,  ni}"  son-in-law  gives  his  father  monej' ;  and 
that  is  what  I  started  to  tell  you  in  the  beginning  of  our 
conversation  about  3'our  son.  But  I  am  looking  after 
Celestine's  interests  ;  3'ou  ma^'  be  easy  on  that  score." 


Cousiii  Bette.  21 

*'  Oh,  if  I  could  only  marry  1113^  daughter  and  die  !  " 
said  the  miserable  woman,  losing  her  self-command. 

"  Well,  I  offer  you  the  means,"  said  Crevel. 

Madame  Hulot  looked  at  him  with  a  gleam  of  hope, 
which  changed  the  expression  of  her  face  so  rapidly 
that  the  sight  of  it  alone  ought  to  have  moved  Crevel 
to  compunction,  and  forced  him  to  abandon  his  prepos- 
terous pursuit. 


22  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    LIFE    OF    A    NOBLE    WOMAN. 

"  You  will  be  beautiful  ten  years  hence,"  said  Crevel, 
resuming  his  position.  "  Accept  me,  and  Mademoiselle 
Hortense  shall  marrj'  at  once.  Hulot  gives  me  the 
right,  as  I  have  just  told  you,  to  drive  a  straight  bar- 
gain ;  he  '11  not  object.  For  the  last  three  3'ears  I  have 
been  saving  mone}' ;  my  little  distractions  have  all  been 
economical.  I  have  three  hundred  thousand  francs  laid 
by,  outside  of  my  real  propert}' ;  the}'  are  jours  —  " 

"Leave  my  house,  monsieur,  and  never  let  me  see 
you  again  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Hnlot.  "  If  you  had 
not  compelled  me  to  ask  the  meaning  of  your  base  con- 
duct in  the  matter  of  my  daughter's  proposed  marriage 
—  yes,  base,"  she  repeated,  in  replv  to  Crevel's  gesture  ; 
"  why  do  3'ou  allow  such  animosities  to  injure  a  poor 
girl,  a  beautiful,  innocent  creature?  —  if  it  were  not 
for  this  cruel  necessit}'  which  wrings  ni}'  mothers-heart 
3'ou  should  never  have  spoken  to  me  again  ;  3'ou  should 
never  have  re-entered  these  doors.  Thirtj'-two  years 
of  wifety  honor  and  loyalty  are  not  destroj'ed  b\'  the 
attacks  of  a  Monsieur  Crevel  —  " 

"Ex-perfumer,  successor  to  Cesar  Birotteau  at  the 
'  Queen  of  Roses,'  rue  Saint-Honor<^,"  said  Crevel, 
jokingly;    "formerly-  assistant-mayor,  captain  of   the 


Cousin  Bette.  23 

National  Guard,  chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  honor,  pre- 
cisely like  niN'  predecessor." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  baroness,  "if  my  husband, 
after  twenty  3'ears  of  constancy,  has  grown  weary  of 
his  wife,  it  concerns  me,  and  only  me ;  and  observe, 
monsieur,  that  he  has  carefuU}'  concealed  his  infideli- 
ties, for  I  was  not  aware  that  he  had  succeeded  3'ou  in 
the  heart  of  Mademoiselle  Josepha." 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Crevel,  "  only  bj'  dint  of  mone}', 
madame ;  that  little  nightingale  has  cost  him  over  a. 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  the  last  two  3'ears.    Ha  I  ha  ! 
there 's  more  behind  it  all,  if  you  did  but  know  it." 

"Enough,  Monsieur  Crevel,.  let  me  hear  no  more! 
I  shall  not  renounce,  for  3'our  sake,  the  happiness  a 
mother  feels  in  folding  her  children  to  her  heart  with- 
out remorse  of  conscience  ;  in  knowino'  that  her  familv 
respect  and  love  her.  I  shall  3  ield  m3^  soul  to  God 
without  a  stain." 

"Amen!"  said  Crevel,  with  the  devilish  bitterness 
that  comes  out  upon  the  faces  of  men  when  the3'  are 
checked  anew  in  such  attempts.  "  You  don't  yet  know 
what  povert3'  is  in  its  last  stages,  —  shame,  dishonor. 
I  have  done  my  best  to  enlighten  you.  I  wished  to  save 
both  3'ou  and  3'our  daughter.  Well,  you  can  spell  out 
the  modern  parable  of  the  prodigal  father  to  its  last 
letter  if  you  like.  —  But  your  tears  and  3'our  pride  do 
touch  me,"  he  added,  sitting  down  again.  "  It  is  dread- 
ful to  see  the  woman  we  love  in  affliction.  All  that  I 
can  promise  3'ou,  dear  Adeline,  is  to  do  nothing  against 
3'Our  interests,  nor  against  your  husband  ;  but,  remem- 
ber, 3'ou  must  never  send  an3'  one  to  me  for  information. 
That's  all  I  have  to  say." 


24  Cousin  Bette. 

*'  What  am  I  to  do?"  exclaimed  Madame  Hulot. 

Till  then  Madame  Ilnlot  had  bravely  borne  the  triple 
torture  this  conversation  had  inflicted  on  her  heart ; 
she  suffered  as  a  woman,  as  a  mother,  as  a  wife.  In 
fact,  so  long  as  her  son's  father-in-law  had  been  over- 
bearing and  aggressive,  she  felt  strengthened  b}-  the  re- 
sistance she  made  to  the  brutalitj'  of  the  ex-shopkeeper  ; 
but  the  good-natured  kindliness  which  he  now  showed 
in  the  midst  of  his  exasperation  as  a  rebuffed  lover,  as  a 
humiliated  national  guard,  relaxed  the  fibres  which  were 
strung  to  their  utmost  pitch.  She  wrung  her  hands  and 
burst  into  tears,  faUing  into  a  state  of  such  abject  de- 
pression that  she  allowed  Crevel,  now  on  his  knees,  to 
kiss  her  hands. 

''My  God!  what  will  become  of  me!"  she  said, 
wiping  her  tears.  "  Can  a  mother  coldl}'  see  a  daugh- 
ter perish  before  her  very  eyes  ?  What  will  be  the  fate 
of  so  glorious  a  creature,  guarded  by  her  chaste  life  be- 
side her  mother  as  much  as  by  the  innate  purity  of  her 
nature?  There  are  days  when  she  wanders  alone  in  the 
garden,  sad  and  disturbed  without  knowing  why  ;  I  see 
the  tears  in  her  eyes  —  " 

"  She  is  twenty-one  years  old,"  said  Crevel. 

"  Must  I  put  her  into  a  convent?  "  exclaimed  the  bar- 
oness. "At  such  crises  religion  is  powerless  against 
nature,  and  girls  who  are  piously  brought  up  have  been 
known  to  go  insane.  Rise,  monsieur ;  do  you  not  see 
that  all  is  at  an  end  between  us?  that  I  feel  a  horror 
of  you?  that  you  have  just  cast  down  and  destroyed  a 
mother's  last  hope?  —  " 

"  What  if  I  raise  it  again?  "  he  said. 

Madame  Hulot  looked  at  Crevel  with  a  frenzied  ex- 


Coumi  Bette.  25 

pression  that  touched  him  ;  but  he  drove  the  pity  from 
his  heart,  recollecting  her  words,  "I  feel  a  horror  for 
3'ou."  Virtue  is  always  a  little  too  much  of  one  thing  ; 
it  does  not  see  the  shades  and  the  variations  of  temper- 
ament among  which  it  might  tack  and  steer  out  of  a 
false  position. 

"  In  these  da3's  there  is  no  marrj'ing  a  girl  as  hand- 
some as  Mademoiselle  Hortense  without  a  dowrj',"  said 
Crevel,  resuming  his  starched  manner.  "  Your  daugh- 
ter is  one  of  those  beauties  who  frighten  men  ;  she  is 
like  a  thorough-bred  horse,  which  requires  such  costly 
care  that  buyers  are  scarce.  How  can  a  man  go  a-foot 
with  such  a  woman  on  his  arm?  Everybodv  would 
stare  at  him,  and  follow  him,  and  want  his  wife.  That 
sort  of  thing  is  dreadful  to  a  man  who  does  n't  care  to 
fight  a  host  of  lovers  ;  for,  after  all,  only  one  of  them 
can  be  killed.  In  the  situation  in  which  you  find  your- 
self, madame,  there  are  but  three  wa3's  in  which  you 
can  marr}-  your  daughter  :  either  by  ni}'  help,  —  and  that 
you  don't  choose  to  take,  — or  to  some  old  man  of  sixty, 
ver}'  rich,  without  children,  who  wants  an  heir,  — diffi- 
cult to  find,  but  3'ou  ma}^  meet  with  him  ;  old  men  are 
apt  to  take  a  Josepha  or  a  Jenny  Cadine,  and  some- 
times thev  do  the  same  thins:  leo-itimatelv.  If  I  did  n't 
have  m}'  Celestine  and  our  two  grandchildren  to  look 
after,  I  'd  marr^-  Hortense  m3'self.  That 's  your  second 
chance  ;  the  third  is  the  easiest." 

Madame  Hulot  raised  her  head  and  looked  eagerly  at 
the  ex-i:)erfumer. 

"Paris  is  a  place  where  all  men  of  talent  and  energy, 
who  grow  like  mushrooms  in  the  soil  of  France,  turn  up 
sooner  or  later ;  it  swarms  with  homeless,  half-starved 


26  Cousin   Bette. 

geniuses,  plucky  fellows,  capable  of  anything,  even  of 
making  their  fortune.  Well,  such  men,  — your  humble 
servant  was  one  of  them  in  his  day,  and  knew  many 
others.  What  was  du  Tillet,  what  was  Popinot  twenty 
3'ears  ago?  They  were  paddling  round  that  little  shop 
of  Papa  Birotteau's,  without  any  other  capital  than  the 
ambition  to  get  on,  which  in  m}^  opinion  is  the  best 
capital  of  all.  Money  capital  can  be  spent  and  wasted, 
but  moral  capital  can't.  Look  at  me  ;  what  did  I  have  ? 
The  wish  to  succeed  and  the  courage  to  do  so.  Du 
Tillet  ranks  to-day  with  the  highest  people  in  the  land. 
Little  Popinot,  the  richest  druggist  in  the  rue  des  Lom- 
bards, became  a  deput}^,  and  is  now  a  minister.  Well, 
as  I  was  saj'ing,  one  of  these  free  lances,  stock-broker, 
artist,  author,  is  the  only  kind  of  man  in  Paris  who  is 
willing  to  marr^'  a  handsome  girl  without  a  penny  ;  they 
are  all  courageous  fellows.  Anselme  Popinot  married 
Mademoiselle  Birotteau  without  expecting  a  farthing  of 
dowr}'.  Such  men  are  cracked  ;  they  believe  in  love, 
just  as  they  believe  in  their  own  faculties  and  their  own 
success.  Find  one  of  them  and  get  him  in  love  with 
3'our  daughter,  and  he  '11  marr}'  her  without  a  thought 
of  the  future.  You  must  admit  that,  enemy  as  you 
think  me,  I  am  not  wanting  in  generositj' ;  for  this 
advice  is  against  my  own  interests." 

'^  Ah,  Monsieur  Crevel,  if  you  would  only  be  my  friend, 
and  give  up  those  ridiculous  ideas  —  " 

"Ridiculous?  Madame,  do  not  undervalue  yourself 
in  that  waj'.  I  love  you,  and  some  da}^  3'ou  will  cer- 
tainly be  mine.  I  intend  to  saj'  to  Hulot,  '  You  took 
Josepha  away  fiom  me ;  I  have  got  your  wife.'  It  is 
the  old  law  of  retaliation.     I  shall  pursue  that  purpose, 


Cousin  Bette.  27 

unless  you  become  extremely  ugl3'.  I  shall  succeed ; 
and  1 11  tell  you  why,"  he  added,  resuming  his  atti- 
tude and  gazing  fixedly  at  Madame  Hulot.  Then  after 
a  pause  he  continued  :  — 

"  You  will  not  find  either  a  rich  old  man  or  a  young 
lover  for  your  daughter,  because  you  love  her  too  well  to 
deliver  her  over  to  the  mercies  of  an  old  libertine,  and 
because  you  will  never  bring  yourself  —  you,  Baronne 
Hnlot,  sister-in-law  of  the  commander  of  the  grenadiers 
of  the  Old  Guard  —  to  take  a  man  of  talent  wherever 
j-ou  can  find  him.  Such  a  man  may  be  a  mere  workman, 
like  many  a  millionnaire  to-da}'  who  was  a  mechanic  ten 
years  ago,  a  foreman,  an  overseer  in  a  manufactory'. 
And  so,  seeing  that  your  daughter,  hopeless  of  mar- 
riage, is  likely  to  do  something  that  will  disgrace  her, 
you  will  say  to  yourself,  '  Better  that  I  be  dishonored  ; 
and  if  Monsieur  Crevel  will  keep  the  secret,  I  will  earn 
m^'  daughter's  dowry  —  two  hundred  thousand  francs  — 
by  ten  3'ears'  attachment  to  that  ex-perfumer.'  I  anno}" 
you;  and  what  I  sa}'  is  profoundly  immorfil,  isn't  it? 
But  if  3'ou  were  eaten  up  bj'  an  irresistible  passion,  3'ou 
would  find  as  man3'  reasons  to  yield  as  a  woman  who 
is  reall3'  in  love.  Well,  you  '11  see  ;  your  daughter's  fu- 
ture will  put  these  capitulations  of  conscience  into  3'our 
mind." 

''  Hortense  has  an  uncle  —  " 

"  Who?  old  Fischer?  His  aflTairs  are  in  a  bad  wa3' ; 
and  that  again  is  the  fault  of  Baron  Hulot,  whose  rake 
gets  into  ever3'  strong-box  within  his  reach  —  ^' 

"  I  mean  Comte  Hulot." 

"Oh, 3*our  husband,  madame, has  alread3" made  mince- 
meat of  his  brother's  savings  ;  the3^  have  gone  to  furnish 


28  Cousin  Mette. 

his  siren's  house.     Come,  now,  do  3'ou  mean  to  let  me 
go  without  a  word  of  hope  ?  " 

"  Adieu,  monsieur.  You  will  soon  get  over  a  passion 
for  a  woman  of  ni}-  age,  and  learn  Christian  principles. 
God  protect  the  sorrowful !  " 

The  baroness  rose  to  compel  the  captain  to  retire, 
forcing  him  thus  into  the  large  salon. 

"  Is  it  proper  that  the  beautiful  Madame  Hulot  should 
live  in  such  a  wretchedly  furnished  place?"  he  said, 
looking  round  him,  and  pointing  to  an  old  lamp,  a 
chandelier  with  the  gilding  defaced,  the  white  seams  of 
the  carpet,  in  short,  to  the  tatters  of  opulence,  which 
made  the  fine  old  salon  in  white,  red,  and  gold  a  skele- 
ton reminder  of  imperial  glorj'. 

"  Virtue  shines  within  it,  monsieur.  I  have  no  de- 
sire to  obtain  a  gorgeous  home  b3^  making  the  beauty 
which  3'OU  say  is  mine  a  wolf-trap,  the  deco}'  of  a  Jewess 
worshipping  the  golden  calf !  " 

The  captain  bit  his  lips  as  he  recognized  the  words  he 
had  lately  used  to  condemn  the  grasping  avarice  of 
Josepha. 

"  And  for  whose  sake  are  you  so  perseveringly 
faithful?"  he  demanded.  By  this  time  the  baroness 
had  led  him  to  the  outer  door  of  the  salon.  "  For  a 
libertine !  "  he  added,  with  the  sneer  of  a  virtuous 
millionnaire. 

"If  he  were,  monsieur,  my  constancy'  would  have 
some  merit,  that  is  all." 

She  left  the  captain  with  a  bow  such  as  a  woman 
gives  to  a  man  she  is  well  rid  of,  and  turned  away  too 
quickly  to  see  him  strike  his  attitude  for  the  last  time. 
She  opened  all  the  doors  which  she  had  closed  and  did 


Cousin  Bette.  29 

not  notice  the  menacing  gesture  with  which  Crevel  left 
the  room.  She  walked  proudh',  nobly,  like  a  mart3'r 
in  the  Coliseum  ;  but  her  strength  was  gone  and,  as 
she  reached  her  boudoir,  she  let  herself  fall  upon  the 
sofa  like  a  woman  on  the  verge  of  exhaustion,  though 
her  ej'es  were  fixed  on  the  ruined  kiosk  where  Ilortense 
was  chattering  with  her  cousin  Bette. 

From  the  first  da3's  of  her  marriage  to  the  present 
time  Madame  Hulot  had  loved  her  husband  just  as 
Josephine  had  finally  loved  Napoleon,  —  with  an  admir- 
ing love,  a  maternal  love,  a  servile  love.  Though  she 
was  ignorant  of  the  details  Crevel  had  just  given  her,  she 
nevertheless  knew  perfectly  well  that  for  the  last  twenty 
years  Baron  Hulot  was  constantly  unfaithful  to  her ; 
but  she  had  drawn  a  leaden  veil  over  her  eyes  and  wept 
in  silence  ;  never  a  word  of  reproach  escaped  her.  In 
return  for  this  angelic  sweetness  she  had  won  the  vener- 
ation of  her  husband,  who  regarded  her  with  a  species 
of  religious  worship.  The  aff'ection  of  a  wife  for  her 
husband,  the  respect  in  wdiich  she  holds  him,  are  con- 
tagious in  a  famil}'.  Hortense  thought  her  father  a 
model  of  conjugal  love.  As  for  Hulot  the  son,  brought 
up  in  admiration  of  the  baron,  w^ho  was  publicl}'  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  giants  who  seconded  Napoleon,  he 
w^as  well  aware  that  he  owed  his  position  to  the  name, 
the  station,  and  the  reputation  of  his  father  ;  moreover, 
still  influenced  by  the  impressions  of  his  childhood,  he 
held  his  father  in  awe.  Had  he  suspected  the  irregu- 
larities which  CrcA^el  now  revealed  he  was  too  respectful 
to  complain  of  them  ;  he  might  even  have  excused  them 
with  such  reasons  as  men  give  for  these  misdemeanors, 
seen  from  their  own  point  of  view. 


30  Cousin  Bette. 

It  now  becomes  necessaiy  to  explain  the  extraordinary 
devotion  of  this  beautiful  and  noble  woman  ;  and  we 
must  give  the  history  of  her  life  in  a  few  words. 

From  a  village  situated  on  the  extreme  confines  of 
Lorraine,  at  the  foot  of  the  Vosges  mountains,  three 
brothers  of  the  name  of  Fischer,  common  laborers, 
drawn  under  the  republican  conscription,  started  for 
the  Arm}^  of  the  Rhine. 

In  1799  the  second  of  these  brothers,  Andre,  wid- 
ower and  father  of  Madame  Hulot,  left  his  daughter 
to  the  care  of  his  elder  brother,  Pierre  Fischer,  dis- 
abled from  active  service  by  wounds  received  in  1797,?^ 
and  made  a  few  limited  trips  on  the  militar}'  transports*' 
an  employment  which  he  owed  to  the  influence  of  the 
pa3'master  of  the  forces.  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy.  B}^  a 
ver}'  natural  accident,  Hulot,  when  he  came  to  Stras- 
burg,  saw  the  Fischer  famil}-.  Adeline's  father  and  his 
3'ounger  brother  were  by  that  time  purve3'ors  of  forage 
in  Alsace. 

Adeline,  then  sixteen  j^ears  of  age,  might  be  com- 
pared with  the  famous  Madame  du  Barr^",  like  herself  a 
daughter  of  Lorraine.  She  was  one  of  those  perfect, 
overwhelming  beauties,  of  the  type  of  Madame  Tallien, 
whom  Nature  manufactures  with  especial  care,  bestowing 
upon  them  her  choicest  gifts,  — distinction,  nobility  of 
bearing,  grace,  delicacy,  elegance,  a  rare  skin,  and  a 
complexion  compounded  on  that  mj'sterious  palette 
where  chance  has  mixed  the  colors.  Beautiful  women 
of  this  type  resemble  each  other.  Bianca  Capello, 
whose  portrait  is  Bronzino's  masterpiece,  the  Venus  of 
Jean  Goujon,  the  original  of  which  was  the  famous 
Diane  de  Poitiers,   Signora  Olympia,  whose  picture  is 


Cousin  Bette.  31 

in  the  Doria  gallery,  in  short,  Ninon,  Madame  du 
BariT,  Madame  Tallien,  Mademoiselle  Georges,  Mad- 
ame Recamier,  —  all  such  women,  who  remain  beautiful 
in  spite  of  3'ears,  passions,  or  lives  of  excessive  dissipa- 
tion, bear  a  strong  likeness  to  each  other  in  their  fig- 
ures, their  structure,  and  the  points  of  their  beaut}' ; 
which  leads  to  a  belief  that  in  the  ocean  of  generative 
forces  there  flows  an  aphrodisiac  current  whence  all 
these  goddesses  emerge,  daughters  of  the  same  salt 
wave. 

Adeline  Fischer,  one  of  the  loveliest  of  the  divine 
tribe,  could  boast  the  glorious  characteristics,  the  ser- 
pentine lines,  the  blue-veined  tissues  of  these  queen- 
born  women.  Her  golden  hair,  the  like  of  which  our 
INIother  Eve  obtained  from  the  hand  of  God,  her  form, 
worthy  of  an  empress  with  its  air  of  grandeur,  the  au- 
gust outlines  of  her  noble  profile,  combined  with  the 
modesty  of  a  village  girl,  arrested  the  attention  of  men 
who  remained  rapt  in  admiration  before  her  like  ama- 
teurs in  presence  of  a  Raphael.  Meeting  her  thus. 
Baron  Hulot  made  Mademoiselle  Adeline  Fischer  bis 
wife  by  civil  marriage,  to  the  great  astonishment  of 
all  the  other  Fischers,  who  had  been  brought  up  to 
hold  their  superiors  in  reverence. 

The  eldest,  Pierre  Fischer,  a  soldier  of  1792,  severely 
wounded  in  the  attack  on  AVissembourg,  worshipped 
Napoleon  and  everything  relating  to  the  grand  arm}'. 
Andre  and  Johann  spoke  with  great  respect  of  the 
paymaster-general,  Hulot,  a  favorite  of  the  Emperor 
and  one,  moreover,  to  whom  they  owed  their  advance- 
ment ;  for  the  baron,  struck  with  their  honest}^  and  in- 
telligence, had  promoted  them  from  the  victualling-trains 


32  Cousin   Bette, 

of  the  army  and  put  them  at  the  head  of  a  commissariat 
department.  Here  the  Fischer  brothers  did  good  ser- 
vice during  the  campaign  of  1804.  AVhen  peace  was 
proclaimed,  Hulot  got  them  a  position  of  purvej'ors  of 
forage  in  Alsace,  without  knowing  that  he  himself 
would  be  sent  to  Strasburg  some  months  later,  to  pre- 
pare for  the  campaign  of  1806. 

To  a  young  peasant-girl  such  a  marriage  was  like  an 
Assumption.  The  beautiful  Adeline  passed,  without 
any  transition  period,  from  the  mud  of  her  native 
village  to  tlie  paradise  of  the  imperial  court.  It  was 
about  this  time  that  Monsieur  Hulot,  one  of  the  most 
faithful,  honest,  and  active  of  his  corps,  was  made 
a  baron,  placed  near  the  Emperor,  and  appointed  to  the 
Imperial  Guard.  The  beautiful  village  girl,  out  of  love 
for  her  husband,  whom  she  idolized,  had  the  courage  to 
have  herself  educated.  The  pa3'master-general  was,  as 
a  man,  a  replica  of  Adeline  as  a  woman.  He  belonged 
to  the  elect  few  of  liandsome  men.  Tall,  well-made, 
fair,  with  blue  eyes  of  a  sparkling  fire  and  play  that  was 
irresistible,  and  an  elegant  figure,  he  was  observable 
even  among  the  d'  Orsays,  the  Forbins,  the  Ouvrards, 
in  short,  the  battalion  of  the  fine  men  of  the  empire. 
A  conqueror  of  women,  and  imbued  with  the  ideas  of 
the  Directory  concerning  them,  his  career  of  gallantry 
was  arrested  for  a  considerable  time  by  his  conjugal 
attachment. 

To  Adeline  the  baron  was,  from  the  start,  a  species 
of  divinity  who  could  do  no  wrong ;  she  owed  every- 
thing to  him, — fortune,  mansion,  carriage,  all  the  luxury 
of  those  luxurious  days  ;  happiness,  for  she  was  publicly 
adored  ;  a  title,  that  of  baroness  ;  and  celebrit}^,  for  she 


Cousin  Bette.  33 

became  known  as  "the  beautiful  Madame  Hulot ; " 
she  even  had  the  honor  of  decUnuig  the  homage  of  the 
Emperor,  who  presented  her  with  a  riviere  of  diamonds, 
and  continued  to  take  notice  of  her,  saving  from  time 
to  time,  '■  That  beautiful  Madame  Hulot,  is  she  still 
virtuous  ? "  —  as  if  he  w' ere  read}'  to  revenge  himself  on 
any  man  who  triumphed  wliere  he  had  failed. 

It  does  not,  therefore,  require  much  intelligence  to 
perceive  in  a  simple,  candid,  beautiful  soul  like  that  of 
Madame  Hulot  the  springs  of  the  fanaticism  which  she 
mingled  with  her  love.  Assuring  herself  perpetually 
that  her  husband  could  be  guilty  of  no  wrong  toward 
her,  she  became  in  her  inward  being  the  humble,  blind, 
devoted  servant  of  her  creator.  It  is  to  be  remarked, 
however,  that  she  was  gifted  with  sound  good  sense ; 
that  good  common-sense  of  the  people,  which  made  her 
education  a  solid  matter.  In  societ\'  she  spoke  little, 
said  no  evil  of  an}*  one,  and  never  sought  to  shine  ;  she 
reflected  about  everything  and  listened  intelligently, 
forming  herself  on  the  model  of  the  worthiest  and  best 
bred  w^omen. 

In  1815  Hulot  followed  the  example  of  an  intimate 
friend,  the  Prince  de  Wissembourg,  and  was  one  of 
those  who  organized  the  impromptu  army  whose  defeat 
at  Waterloo  ended  the  Napoleonic  era.  In  1816  the 
baron  became  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  Feltre  ministrj', 
and  was  onh'  reinstated  in  the  commissariat  depart- 
ment in  1823,  when  the  government  wanted  his  ser- 
vices for  the  war  in  Spain.  In  1830,  at  the  time  when 
Louis  Philippe  levied  a  species  of  conscription  among 
the  former  Napoleonic  troops,  he  became  quartermaster- 
general.     After  the   accession  of  the  younger  branch, 

3 


34  Cousin  Bette. 

of  which  he  was  an  able  supporter,  he  remained  an  in- 
dispensable officer  of  the  ministry'  of  war.  He  had, 
moreover,  obtained  his  marshal's-baton,  so  that  the 
king  could  do  no  more  for  him^  short  of  making  him 
minister  or  peer  of  France. 

Deprived  of  his  usual  occupations  from  1818  to  1823, 
Baron  Hulot  took  to  active  service  around  women. 
Madame  Hulot  dated  her  Hector's  first  infidelities  to 
the  period  of  the  empire's  grand  finale.  Up  to  that 
time  —  that  is,  for  twelve  j'ears  —  she  had  been  undispu- 
ted ^:)rima  donna  assoluta  of  their  home.  She  still  en- 
joyed the  inveterate  habitual  aff'ection  which  husbands 
always  bestow  on  wives  who  resign  themselves  to  the  role 
of  gentle  and  virtuous  companions ;  she  knew  that  no 
rival  could  hold  her  own  for  two  hours  against  a  single 
word  of  complaint  on  her  part ;  but  she  closed  her 
eyes,  stopped  her  ears,  and  tried  to  ignore  her  hus- 
band's conduct  outside  of  his  own  home.  She  treated 
her  Hector  at  last  ver}'  much  as  a  mother  treats  a 
spoiled  child.  Three  jears  before  the  conversation 
just  related,  Hortense  had  recognized  her  father  in 
a  proscenium  box  at  the  Varietes  in  companv  with 
Jenny  Cadine,  and  exclaimed  :  '*  See,  there  's  papa  !  " 
"  You  are  mistaken,  my  darling,"  said  her  mother  ;  "  he 
is  with  the  marshal."  The  baroness  had  seen  her  rival 
plainly  enough,  but  instead  of  undergoing  a  pang  at  the 
sight  of  her  beaut}',  she  said  to  herself,  '•  That  scamp 
of  a  Hector  must  be  happy."  Nevertheless  she  did 
suff'er,  and  gave  wa}'  secretly  at  times  to  fi-ightful 
anger ;  but  as  soon  as  Hector  entered  her  presence  she 
remembered  only  her  twelve  3'ears  of  unalloyed  happi- 
ness, and  lost  all  power  to  articulate  complaints.     She 


Cousin   Bette.  35 

would  have  liked  him  to  make  her  his  confidante ;  but 
she  never  dared,  out  of  respect  for  his  character,  to  let 
him  know  that  she  was  aware  of  his  follies.  Such  ex- 
cess of  delicacy  is  onh*  met  with  among  the  beauteous 
daughters  of  the  people,  who  know  how  to  bear  a  blow 
without  returning  it ;  in  their  veins  the  blood  of  the 
martyrs  still  lingers.  Well-born  women,  the  equals  of 
their  husbands,  feel  the  need  of  irritating  them,  of 
marking  their  tolerance  of  wrong,  just  as  we  mark  a 
score  at  billiards,  by  cutting  words  spoken  in  a  spirit 
of  diabolical  vengeance,  intended  to  assert  either  their 
superiority  or  their  right  to  go  and  do  likewise. 

The  baroness  had  a  devoted  admirer  in  her  brother- 
in-law,  Lieutenant-general  Hulot,  the  venerable  com- 
mander of  the  foot  grenadiers  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  to 
whom  a  marshal's-baton  had  been  granted  in  his  latter 
years.  The  old  man,  after  commanding  from  1830  to 
1834  the  militarj'  division  which  comprised  the  Breton 
departments,  the  scene  of  his  exploits  in  1799  and  1800, 
had  come  to  end  liis  days  in  Paris  near  his  brother,  for 
whom  he  never  ceased  to  feel  the  affection  of  a  father. 
The  heart  of  the  old  soldier  sympathized  with  that  of 
his  sister-in-law  ;  he  admired  her  as  the  noblest,  saint- 
liest  of  her  sex.  He  never  married,  because  he  longed 
for  a  second  Adeline,  seeking  her  vainl}'  in  many  lands 
and  through  man}'  campaigns.  The  desire  not  to  fall 
in  the  estimation  of  the  old  hero,  the  man  without  re- 
proach or  stain,  of  whom  Napoleon  had  said,  ''That 
fine  Hulot  is  the  most  obstinate  of  repubhcans,  but  he 
will  never  betray  me,"  would  of  itself  have  led  Adeline 
to  endure  even  greater  sufferings  than  those  which 
she  underwent.     But  the  old  general,  now  seventy-two 


36  Cousin  Bette, 

3'ears  of  age,  broken  b}^  thirty  campaigns,  wounded 
for  the  twent3'-seventh  time  at  Waterloo,  though  he 
was  the  object  of  Adeline's  admiration  was,  neverthe- 
less, no  protection  to  hei-.  The  poor  count,  among 
other  infirmities,  could  hear  nothing  except  through  a 
trumpet. 

A ^  long  as  Baron  Hulot  d'Er\T  remained  3'oung  and 
handsome,  his  love  affairs  did  little  harm  to  his  fortune  ; 
but  at  fifty  years  of  ao-e,  the  o-vaces  must  be  reckoned 
with.  At  that  age  love  in  elderly  men  changes  to  vice, 
mingled,  moreover,  with  insensate  vanit}*.  About  this 
period  of  his  life  Adeline  began  to  notice  in  her  hus- 
band an  extreme  attention  to  his  dress ;  he  dyed  his 
hair  and  his  whiskers,  and  buckled  himself  into  belts 
and  corsets.  He  was  resolved  to  remain  handsome  at 
any  cost.  This  cultivation  of  his  person,  a  weakness 
he  had  formerly  ridiculed  in  others,  made  him  even 
finical.  Adeline  at  last  perceived  that  the  Pactolus  which 
flowed  among  the  Baron's  mistresses  took  its  rise  from 
her.  During  the  last  eight  3'ears  a  considerable  fortune 
had  been  squandered,  and  so  i-adically  made  away  with 
that  about  the  time  young  Hulot  had  married  Crevel's 
daughter,  the  Baron  had  been  forced  to  admit  to  his 
wife  that  his  salar}'  and  emoluments  were  all  that  re- 
mained to  them.  "  Where  will  all  this  lead  us?"  was 
her  answer.  "  Don't  be  uneasy,"  said  the  councillor  of 
State ;  "I  will  give  3'ou  all  my  emoluments,  and  I  will 
provide  for  the  marriage  of  Hortense  and  our  own 
future  by  undertaking  certain  matters  of  business." 
The  wife's  unshaken  faith  in  the  power  and  high  value 
of  her  husband's  character  and  capacity  calmed  her 
temporary  uneasiness. 


Cousin   Bette.  37 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    CHARACTER    OF    AN    OLD    MAID  ;     ORIGINAL,    AND    YET 
NOT    AS    UNCOMMON    AS    ONE    MIGHT    THINK. 

The  nature  of  Madame  Hulot's  reflections  and  the 
cause  of  her  tears,  after  Crevel's  departure,  can  easily 
be  conceived  by  the  helj3  of  the  foregoing  explanations. 
The  poor  woman  had  known  for  the  last  two  years  that 
she  was  in  the  depths  of  an  ab3-ss ;  but  she  thought  she 
was  the  sole  victim.  She  was  ignorant  of  the  terms  on 
which  her  son's  marriage  had  been  brought  about ;  she 
did  not  know  of  Hector's  relation  to  the  grasping  Jo- 
sepha  :  and  above  all,  she  had  hoped  that  no  one  on 
earth  suspected  her  sorrows.  If  Crevel  talked  with 
levity  of  the  baron's  irregularities,  she  was  aware  that 
Hector  must  fall  in  public  estimation.  She  saw,  through 
the  coarse  talk  of  the  irritated  ex-perfumer,  the  odious 
collusion  of  the  two  men  to  w^hich  the  marriage  of  her  son 
was  due.  Two  abandoned  women  were  the  priestesses 
of  that  hymen,  planned  in  some  orgie,  amid  the  degrad- 
ing familiarities  of  a  pair  of  drunken  old  men  !  "He  for- 
got Hortense,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Can  it  be  that  he 
will  find  her  a  husband  in  the  society  of  those  reprobate 
women  ? "  The  mother,  stronger  than  the  wife,  spoke 
in  these  words  as  her  eyes  rested  on  Hortense,  laugh- 
ing, with  her  cousin  Bette,  the  eager  laugh  of  thought- 
less girlhood,  and  she  felt  that  those  nervous  sounds 


38  Cousin  Bette. 

were  as  terrible  an  indication  of  tlie  girl's  feelings  as 
her  tearful  reveries  in  the  solitude  of  the  garden. 

Hortense  resembled  her  mother ;  but  she  had  golden 
hair  whose  natural  curl  and  profusion  were  realh'  won- 
derful. The  lustre  of  her  skin  was  like  mother-of-pearl. 
She  was  evidently  the  fruit  of  an  honest  marriage,  of  a 
pure  and  noble  love  in  its  fullest  strength,  shown  in  a 
passionate  action  of  the  whole  countenance,  a  ga3'et3'  in 
every  feature,  a  spirit  of  youth,  a  freshness  of  life,  a 
richness  of  health  which  vibrated  about  her,  and  sent 
forth  electric  currents.  Plortense  attracted  the  e3'e. 
When  her  own  ej'es  —  of  an  ultra-marine  blue,  floating 
in  that  fluid  that  comes  of  innocency  —  rested  on  some 
passer-by  he  quivered  involuntarily.  Not  a  single  red 
blemish  —  the  penalt}'  these  golden  blondes  so  often  pay 
for  their  milk-white  skins  —  marred  her  com[)lexion. 
Tall,  plump,  without  being  fat,  with  a  graceful  figure, 
whose  dignity  equalled  that  of  her  mother,  she  merited 
the  epithet  of  "goddess"  so  lavishly  bestowed  by  old- 
fashioned  writers.  Persons  who  met  her  in  the  street 
could  scarce  restrain  the  exclamation,  —  "  Good  heav- 
ens !  what  a  beautiful  girl !  "  She  herself  was  so  truly 
guileless  that  she  would  turn  anrl  say  to  her  mother, 
"How  can  the}'  call  me  beautiful  when  you  are  with 
me?  3^ou  are  so  much  handsomer  than  1."  In  fact, 
though  the  baroness  was  forty-seven  years  old,  admirers 
of  the  setting  sun  did  prefer  her  to  her  daughter ;  for 
she  had,  to  use  the  lano-uasje  of  her  sex.  lost  none  of 
her  advantages^  thanks  to  one  of  those  rare  phenom- 
ena, especially  rare  in  Paris,  which  made  Ninon  the 
successful  rival  of  three  generations. 

Thinking    of   her   daughter,    the    mother's    thoughts 


Cousm  Bette.  41 

reverted  to  the  father;  she  saw  him  sliding  day  b;y' 
day,  Uttle  by  little,  into  the  social  slough,  —  possibly 
dismissed  at  last  from  the  ministr3-.  The  idea  of  the 
fall  of  her  idol,  accompanied  b\'  vague  visions  of  the 
sorrows  which  Crevel  had  prophesied,  was  so  terrible 
to  the  poor  woman  that  she  lost  consciousness  in  a 
species  of  painful  ecstasy. 

Her  cousin  Bette,  who  was  talking  with  Hortense, 
looked  from  time  to  time  toward  the  house  to  see  if 
the}'  might  return  to  the  salon  ;  but  her  young  compan- 
ion was  teasing  her  with  questions  at  the  moment  when 
the  baroness  opened  the  glass  door,  and  she  did  not 
perceive  the  action. 

Lisbeth  Fischer,  five  3'ears  younger  than  Madame 
Hulot,  tb'*  '  '  '  was  the  daughter  of  the  elder  brother, 
wci^  as  beautiful  as  her  cousin,  and  she 

(^  jdigiously  jealous  of  her.     Jealousy 

.isis  of  a  character  full  of  eccentricity 
jCd  by  Englishmen  to  designate  the  fol- 
Jie  people,  but  of  the  upper  classes).     A 
jman  of  the  department  of  the  Vosges  in  the 
aeaning  of  that   term,    thin,   dark-hued,   with 
gleaix^iUg  black  hair,  thick  eyebrows  meeting  in  a  tuft, 
arms  of  great  power  and  length,  thick  feet,  and  a  few 
warts  on  the  long,  simian  face,  —  such  is  a  concise  por- 
trait of  this  spinster  cousin. 

The  famih'  of  the  two  brothers,  who  lived  together, 
sacrificed  the  plain  daughter  to  the  pretty  daughter, 
the  bitter  fruit  to  the  dazzling  flower.  Lisbeth  worked 
while  Adeline  was  petted  and  indulged  ;  and  there  came 
a  da}'  when  the  former,  alone  with  Adeline,  tried  to 
disfigure  the  latter's  nose,  —  a  true  Grecian  nose,  the 


88  Cousin  Bette. 

ccdmiration  of  old  women.  Though  whipped  for  this  par- 
ticular misdeed;  she  never  could  be  prevented  from  tearing 
the  dresses  and  spoiling  the  collars  of  tlie  petted  darling. 
After  the  astounding  marriage  of  her  cousin,  Lisbeth 
bowed  before  that  superior  destin}',  just  as  the  brothers 
and  sisters  of  Napoleon  bowed  before  the  grandeur  of 
a  throne  and  the  might  of  authority.  Adeline,  alwa3's 
good  and  tender,  bethought  herself  of  Lisbeth  after 
she  reached  Paris,  and  invited  her  there  in  1809.  in- 
tending: to  ofet  her  married  and  save  her  from  future 
poverty.  Finding  it  a  slower  matter  than  they  expected 
to  marry  off  a  girl  with  black  eyes  and  beetling  brows, 
who  was  unable  either  to  read  or  write,  Baron  Hulot 
began  by  giving  her  a  trade  ;  he  apprenticed  Lisbeth 
to  the  famous  Pons  brothers,  embroiderers  to  the  im- 
perial court. 

Cousin  Lisbeth,  called  "Bette"  for  short,  became 
henceforth  a  worker  of  gold  and  silver  lace.  Energetic, 
like  all  mountaineers,  she  had  the  courage  to  be  taught 
to  read,  write,  and  cipher,  for  the  baron  proved  to  her 
the  need  of  those  accomplishments  if  she  was  ever  to 
have  an  establishment  of  her  own  in  the  trade.  She 
resolved  to  make  her  fortune  ;  and  in  two  years  she 
actually  metamorphosed  herself.  In  1811  the  peasant 
woman  of  Lorraine  was  a  rather  pleasing,  capable,  and 
intelligent  forewoman  in  a  prosperous  house. 

This  business,  called  the  gold-and-silver  lace-trade, 
comprised  the  making  of  epaulets,  aiguillettes,  sword- 
knots,  —  in  short,  all  that  enormous  quantity  of  brilliant 
things  which  glittered  on  the  uniforms  of  the  French 
arm}^,  and  the  coats  of  civilians  during  the  empire.  The 
Emperor,  a  true  Italian  lover  of  costume,  required  gold 


Cousin  Bette.  41 

and  silver  embroidery  on  every  seam  of  his  servants' 
clothes,  and  his  empire  extended  over  one  hundred  and 
thirt}^- three  departments.  To  furnish  these  embroid- 
eries to  the  tailors,  —  a  wealthy  and  sure-paying  body 
of  tradesmen,  —  or  to  the  grand  dignitaries  themselves, 
was  a  safe  business. 

At  the  very  moment  when  Lisbeth  Fischer,  the  best 
workwoman  of  the  Pons  establishment,  where  she  super- 
intended the  manufactory,  was  about  to  start  in  busi- 
ness for  herself,  the  fall  of  the  empire  occurred.  The 
olive-branch  of  peace  in  the  hands  of  the  Bourbons 
frightened  Bette.  She  feared  the  trade  would  succumb 
now  that  there  were  only  eighty-four  departments  in- 
stead of  a  hundred  and  thirty-three  to  supply,  not  to 
speak  of  the  enormous  reduction  of  the  ami}',  conse- 
quently of  uniforms.  Terrified  at  the  prospect,  she 
refused  the  offers  of  the  baron  to  set  her  up  in  busi- 
ness ;  for  which  perversity  he  thought  her  crazy.  She 
still  further  justified  that  opinion  by  quarrelUng  with 
Monsieur  Rivet,  purchaser  for  the  Pons  establishment, 
with  whom  the  baron  wished  her  to  form  a  partnership. 
The  matter  ended  by  her  becoming  once  more  a  mere 
journey  woman. 

The  Fischer  family  had  by  this  time  fallen  back  into 
the  condition  of  precarious  poverty  from  which  Baron 
Hulot  had  lifted  them.  Ruined  by  the  catastrophe  of 
Fontainebleau,  the  three  Fischer  brothers  served  as  a 
forlorn  hope  with  the  franc-tireurs  of  1815.  The 
eldest,  father  of  Lisbeth,  was  killed.  Adeline's  father, 
condemned  to  death  b}'  court-martial,  fled  to  Germany 
and  died  at  Treves  in  1820.  The  younger  brother, 
Johann,  came  to  Paris  and  implored  the  assistance  of 


42  Cousin  Bette, 

the  queen  of  the  family  ;  who,  it  was  said,  dined  off 
silver  and  gold,  and  never  appeared  in  company  with- 
out diamonds  on  her  head  and  throat  as  big  as  filberts, 
given  to  her,  so  the  story  went,  by  the  Emperor.  Jo- 
hann  Fischer,  then  forty-three  3'ears  of  iige,  received 
from  Baron  Hulot  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  francs  to 
start  a  small  forage  business  for  the  army  at  Versailles  ; 
to  obtain  this  concession  the  baron  employed  some 
secret  influence  which  he  still  possessed  with  friends 
in  the  ministry  of  war. 

These  family  misfortunes,  the  loss  of  Baron  Hu lot's 
official  position,  the  certainty  that  she  could  be  of  no 
account  in  the  vast  turmoil  of  men,  events,  and  interests 
in  Paris,  cowed  Lisbeth  Fischer.  Thenceforth  she 
gave  up  all  idea  of  competition  with  her  beautiful 
cousin,  whose  many  superiorities  she  inwardlj'  acknowl- 
edged ;  but  envy  lurked  in  her  breast,  as  a  germ  of 
the  plague  lurks  in  a  bale  of  woollen  stuffs  only  to 
burst  forth  and  ravage  a  cit}"  when  the  bale  is  opened. 
From  time  to  time  she  said  to  herself,  "Adeline  and  I 
are  of  the  same  blood  ;  our  fathers  were  brothers ;  3'et 
she  lives  in  a  mansion,  I  in  a  garret."  Nevertheless 
she  accepted  presents  from  the  baron  and  Madame  Hulot 
on  her  birthda}'  and  at  the  New-Year ;  the  baron,  who 
was  always  good  to  her,  supplied  her  with  winter  fuel : 
old  General  Hulot  invited  her  to  dinner  one  day  in  the 
week,  and  her  place  w^as  laid  at  her  cousin's  table  every 
day  in  the  3'ear.  The}'  all  made  fun  of  her,  but  they 
were  not  ashamed  of  her.  They  had  given  her  an  in- 
dependent position  in  the  great  city,  where  she  lived  as 
she  pleased. 

The  woman   herself  dreaded   any   species  of  yoke, 


Cousin  Bette.  43 

Adeline  offered  her  a  home  in  her  house  ;  Bette  at  once 
rebelled  at  the  halter  of  obligation.  Man}*  a  time  the 
baron  tried  to  solve  the  difficult  problem  of  marrying 
her ;  but  though  she  j'ielded  to  the  first  advances,  she 
refused  each  proposal,  fearing  to  be  slighted  for  her 
want  of  education,  her  ignorance,  and  the  lack  of  dowrj'. 
When  the  baroness  proposed  that  she  should  live  with 
their  uncle  and  keep  his  house,  instead  of  his  being  sad- 
dled with  an  expensive  housekeeper,  she  replied  that 
she  certainly  should  never  marry  in  that  way. 

In  all  her  ideas  cousin  Bette  was  an  oddity, — like 
other  natures  that  develop  late,  especially  savages,  who 
think  much  and  speak  little.  Her  peasant  mind  had  ac- 
quired from  the  talk  of  the  workrooms  and  the  compan- 
ionship of  both  male  and  female  workpeople  a  strong 
tinge  of  Parisian  sarcasm.  This  woman,  whose  charac- 
ter bore  a  marked  resemblance  to  that  of  Corsicans,  and 
who  was  uselessly  goaded  by  the  instincts  of  a  powerful 
nature,  would  have  loved  to  protect  a  feeble  man  ;  and 
yet,  as  a  result  of  living  in  the  great  capital,  the  capital 
had  changed  her  on  the  surface.  Parisian  polish  cre- 
ated rust  upon  that  powerfully  tempered  spirit.  Gifted 
with  a  shrewdness  now  become  fundamental,  as  it  does 
in  all  persons  vowed  to  real  celibac}',  she  would,  owing 
to  the  pungent  turn  she  gave  to  her  ideas,  have  seemed 
a  person  to  be  feai-ed  in  any  other  situation  than  the 
one  she  was  in.  Malicious  in  heart,  she  ^yas  capable 
of  setting  the  most  united  family  by  the  ears. 

In  her  earlier  days,  when  she  cherished  a  few  hopes, 
the  secret  of  which  she  told  to  no  one,  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  wear  corsets  and  follow  the  fashions  ;  it 
was  then  that  she  appeared  with  a  passing  resplendence 


44  Cousin  Bette. 

which  made  the  baron  think  she  miglit  be  marriageable. 
For  a  time  she  became  the  piquante  brunette  of  the 
old-fashioned  French  novel.  Her  piercing  glance,  her 
olive  skin,  and  reed-like  waist  might  have  tempted  some 
half-pa}'  major  ;  but  she  was  satisfied,  as  she  laughinglv 
declared,  with  her  own  admiration.  She  ended  bv 
being  realty  contented  with  her  life  ;  curtailing  most  of 
its  material  cares  b}-  dining  ever}^  CA^ening  with  friends, 
after  working  at  her  trade  since  sunrise.  She  had  onh' 
her  breakfast  and  her  lodging  to  provide  ;  friends  sup- 
plied her  with  clothing  and  mone}^  and  man}'  accept- 
able provisions,  s'uch  as  sugar,  wine,  etc. 

In  1837,  cousin  Bette,  after  living  in  Paris  for  twent}'- 
seven  3'ears,  parth'  at  the  expense  of  the  Hulots  and 
her  uncle  Fischer,  resigned  herself  to  the  fact  that  she 
was  a  nobody  and  allowed  people  to  treat  her  as  the}' 
pleased.  She  refused  to  be  present  at  dinner-parties, 
preferring  the  family  gatherings  where  she  herself  could 
be  of  consequence  :  thus  avoiding  the  sufferings  of  self- 
love.  Wherever  she  thus  went,  whether  to  the  houses 
of  old  General  Hulot,  Crevel,  3'oung  Hulot,  and  Rivet 
(who  had  succeeded  to  the  Pons  business  and  with 
whom  she  had  become  reconciled  and  who  now  showed 
her  much  hospitalit}') ,  or  to  that  of  her  cousin,  Madame 
Hulot,  she  was  received  as  one  of  the  famih'.  She 
knew  how  to  propitiate  the  servants  with  little  fees 
given  from  time  to  time,  and  by  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  them  before  entering  the  salon.  This 
familiarity,  b}-  which  she  frankly  put  herself  on  a  level 
with  the  domestics,  won  their  backstairs  good-will,  an 
essential  gain  to  parasites.  "That's  a  kind,  good 
creature !  "   was   the   verdict    ever3'body   passed   upon 


Cousin  Bette.  45 

her.  Her  obliging  helpfulness,  which  was  boundless 
if  no  one  exacted  it,  as  well  as  her  specious  good- 
humor,  was  a  necessity  of  her  position.  She  ended  b}" 
considering  her  life  at  the  mercy  of  everybody  ;  wish- 
ino'  to  olease  everybody  she  lauohed  and  chattered  with 
the  3'oung  people,  to  whom  she  made  herself  acceptable 
by  a  fondling  manner  which  alwa3's  attracts  them  ;  she 
guessed  and  furthered  their  wishes  and  even  interpreted 
them,  and  was  the  best  of  all  confidantes  because  she  had 
no  authorit}'  to  find  fault.  Her  absolute  discretion  won 
the  confidence  of  older  persons,  for  she  possessed,  like 
Ninon,  some  of  the  qualities  of  a  man.  As  a  general 
thing'^DCople  usuall}'  make  confidences  to  those  beneath 
them  rather  than  to  those  above  them;  they  employ 
their  inferiors  far  more  than  their  superiors  in  secret 
matters  :  such  persons  consequently  become  the  sharers 
of  their  hidden  thoughts  ;  they  are  called  into  private 
discussions ;  even  Richelieu  thought  himself  sure  of 
power  when  he  was  allowed  to  be  present  at  a  council  of 
state.  This  poor  old  maid  was  thought  to  be  so  depend- 
ent on  every  one  about  her  that  she  was  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  a  deaf-mute.  She  even  nicknamed  herself 
"  the  famil}''  confessional."  Madame  Hulot  alone,  remem- 
bering the  harsh  treatment  she  had  herself  received  in 
childhood  from  this  cousin  so  much  stronger  though 
younger  than  she,  felt  a  certain  distrust  of  her  and  made 
her  no  confidences.  But  in  any  case,  the  baroness, 
from  a  sense  of  decency',  would  have  confided  her 
domestic  miseries  to  none  but  God  himself. 

Perhaps  it  is  well  to  state  here  that  the  Hulot  man- 
sion still  retained  its  splendor  in  the  e3'es  of  cousin 
Bette,    who   was    not    struck,    like    the    paryenu    ex- 


46  Cousin  Bette. 

perfumer  by  the  poverty  bursting  from  the  moth-eaten 
covers,  the  stained  curtains  and  the  ragged  stuffs.  The 
furniture  we  live  with  is  in  some  respects  like  ourselves. 
By  dint  of  seeing  our  own  persons  daily  we  end,  as 
the  baron  did,  by  thinking  we  are  little  changed  and 
still  young  while  others  note  that  our  heads  are  turning 
to  the  color  of  chinchilla,  that  circumflex  accents  are 
coming  out  upon  our  foreheads,  and  pumpkin-like  pro- 
jections on  our  stomachs.  The  mansion  therefore  con- 
tinued to  shine  in  the  old  maid's  eyes  with  the  Bengal 
lights  of  imperial  victories. 

In  course  of  time  cousin  Bette  contracted  certain 
peculiarities  of  old-maidism.  For  example,  instead  of 
following  the  fashions,  she  made  them  conform  to  her 
own  habits,  and  jield  to  many  of  her  old-fashioned  predi- 
lections. If  the  baroness  gave  her  a  prettv  bonnet  or  a 
dress  of  the  newest  cut,  Bette  at  once  remade  it  after 
her  own  ideas,  in  some  fashion  which  recalled  the  em- 
pire and  her  former  Lorraine  costume.  A  thirt3'-franc 
bonnet  became  a  nondescript  covering,  the  prett}^  dress 
a  wisp  of  odds  and  ends.  In  such  matters  Bette  was 
obstinate  as  a  mule,  —  she  was  i-esolved  to  please  herself 
and  considered  the  result  charming ;  but  the  real  truth 
was  that  this  curious  assimilation,  though  it  harmonized 
with  her  nature  and  made  her  from  head  to  foot  a  reg- 
ular old  maid,  made  her  also  so  ridiculous  that  few, 
even  with  kindest  intentions,  were  willing  to  receive 
her  in  their  houses  on  gala  days. 

The  restive,  independent,  wilful  spirit,  and  the  in- 
explicable untamability  of  this  woman,  for  whom  the 
baron  had  four  times  found  a  husband  (a  clerk  in  his 
ministry,  a  major,  a  purveyor,  and  a  rehired  caj^tain), 


Cousin  Bette.  47 

and  who  had  refused  a  dealer  in  the  gold-lace  trade, 
who  afterwards  became  wealthy,  fnll}'  accounted  for 
the  nickname  of  "  Nann3'-goat"  which  the  baron  be- 
stowed upon  her.  And  yet  the  name  onh'  answered 
to  the  external  oddities  of  her  behavior,  to  those  sur- 
face exhibitions  w^hich  we  make  to  each  otlier  in  our 
social  state.  This  woman,  if  carefully  observed,  would 
have  betrayed  the  ferocious  side  of  the  peasant  class ; 
she  was  still  the  child  who  longed  to  tear  the  nose  from 
her  cousin's  face,  and,  if  she  had  not  acquired  a  stock 
of  common-sense,  might  even  now  kill  her  in  a  parox- 
ysm of  jealousy.  It  was  only  through  her  acquired 
knowledge  of  life  and  of  the  laws  that  she  was  able  to 
control  those  rai)id  impulses  by  which  the  people  of 
isolated  regions  and  savages  pass  from  feeling  to  ac- 
tion. Possibly  the  whole  difference  between  the  natu- 
ral man  and  the  civilized  man  lies  here.  The  savage 
has  feelings  only  ;  the  civilized  being  has  feelings  and 
ideas.  Therefore  among  savages  the  brain  receives,  as 
it  were,  few  imprints  ;  it  is  wholly  in  the  grasp  of  the 
feeling  that  invades  it.  But  in  civilized  man  ideas  de- 
scend upon  the  heart  and  transform  it ;  he  is  possessed 
by  many  interests,  man}'  feelings,  whereas  the  savage 
has  but  one  idea,  one  feeling,  at  a  time.  That  is  the 
cause  of  the  momentary  power  of  the  child  over  its 
parents,  —  a  power  wiiich  ceases  as  soon  as  the  child's 
desire  is  satisfied  ;  but  in  the  man  who  lives  close  to  na- 
ture that  cause  is  continuous.  Cousin  Bette,  the  Lorraine 
savage,  more  or  less  treacherous,  belonged  to  the  cate- 
gorv  of  such  natures,  who  are  not  so  uncommon  among 
the  masses  as  people  think  for,  —  a  fact  which  goes  far 
to  explain  their  (;onduct  in  revolutions. 


48  Cousin  Bette. 

If,  at  the  particular  time  when  this  history  begins, 
cousin  Bette  had  chosen  to  dress  in  the  fashion,  —  if 
she  had,  like  other  Parisian  women,  lent  herself  to  the 
changing  modes,  —  she  might  have  been  presentable  and 
even  acceptable  ;  but  she  was  now  as  rigid  and  unyield- 
ing as  a  pole.  Without  the  charm  of  grace  woman  may 
be  said  not  to  exist  in  Paris.  And  thus  it  was  that  the 
abundant  black  hair,  the  handsome  hard  ej'es,  the  firm 
lines  of  the  face,  the  Calabrian  sallowness  of  the  skin 
which  made  cousin  Bette  an  embodiment  of  Giotto's 
women,  and  out  of  which  a  true  Parisian  would  have 
made  capital,  above  all,  her  strange  attire  gave  her  so 
odd  an  appearance  that  she  sometimes  looked  like  a 
dressed-up  monkey,  such  as  the  little  Savoyards  carry 
about  on  their  organs.  As  she  was  well  known  in  the 
various  houses  united  by  family  ties  to  which  she  con- 
fined her  social  evolutions,  and  was  also  fond  of  her  own 
home,  her  singularities  offended  no  one,  and  passed 
unnoticed  in  the  vortex  of  Parisian  streets,  where  no 
woman  is  looked  at  unless  she  is  prett}'. 

Hortense  was  laughing  at  having  got  the  better  of 
her  cousin  Bette's  obstinacy  and  wrung  from  her  an 
avowal  she  had  been  seeking  for  three  3-ears.  However 
sly  an  old  maid  may  be,  there  is  one  sentiment  which 
will  always  make  her  open  her  lips,  —  namely,  vanity. 
For  three  years  past  Hortense,  who  was  extremelv 
curious  on  a  certain  point,  had  assailed  her  cousin  with 
questions  which  showed  her  own  perfect  innocence ; 
she  wanted  to  know  wh}'  her  cousin  had  never  married. 
Hortense  knew  the  history  of  the  five  rejected  suitors, 
and  had  built  up  a  little  romance  of  her  own,  believing 
that  Bette  was  secreth'  in  love  ;  and  out  of  this  beUef  a 


Cousin   Bette.  49 

war  of  jokes  had  arisen.  Horteiise  would  sa}',  ''We 
young  girls,"  referring  to  herself  and  her  cousin.  Bette 
sometimes  replied  in  a  jesting  tone,  "  Who  told  you  I 
had  a  lover?  "  Cousin  Bette's  lover,  real  or  pretended, 
became  thenceforth  the  subject  of  much  friendly  teas- 
ing. At  the  end  of  two  3'ears  Hortense  said  one  da}'  as 
usual,  "How  is  3'our  lover?" 

"Pretty  well,"  answered  Bette;  "  he  suffers  a  good 
deal  sometimes,  —  poor  3'oung  man  !  " 

"Ah!  is  he  delicate?"  asked  Madame  Hulot, 
lauo;hino;. 

"Yes,  indeed;  he  is  a  blonde.  A  brown  girl  like 
me  could  n't  love  a  man  unless  he  were  as  fair  as  the 
moon." 

"  But  who  is  he?  What  does  he  do?  "  said  Hortense  ; 
"  is  he  a  prince?" 

"  Prince  of  the  lathe,  just  as  I  am  queen  of  the  bob- 
bins," answered  Bette.  "  A  poor  girl  can't  be  loved 
now-a-days  by  the  lord  of  a  castle  rolling  in  mone}',  or 
a  duke,  or  a  peer,  or  a  Prince  Charming  as  it  is  in 
your  fairy-tales." 

"  Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  see  him  !  "  cried  Hortense. 

"  And  find  out  what  sort  of  fellow  he  is  who  can  love 
an  old  nanny-goat  like  me,"  declared  Bette. 

"  He  must  be  some  queer  clerk  with  a  goatee  !  "  said 
Hortense,  looking  at  her  mother. 

"  That's  as  true  as  that  you  have  no  lover!  "  said 
Bette,  with  an  offended  air. 

"  Well,  if  you  ha^'e  one,  Bette,  why  don't  you  marr}^ 
him  ? "  asked  Madame  Hulot,  making  a  sign  to  her 
daughter.  "For  the  last  three  years  you  have  been 
talking  about   him  ;    you  have    certainly    had   time    to 

4 


50  Cousin  Bette. 

study  him,  and  if  he  continues  faithful  3'ou  ought  not  to 
keep  him  waiting  any  longer.  It  is  a  matter  of  con- 
science ;  besides,  if  he  is  young,  it  is  well  to  get  a  staff 
for  his  old  age." 

Bette  looked  fixedly  at  the  baroness,  and  seeing  that 
she  spoke  in  jest  answered:  "Then  I  should  marry 
hunger  and  thirst.  He  is  a  workman  and  I  am  a  work- 
woman ;  if  we  had  children  they  'd  be  work-people. 
No,  no,  our  souls  love  each  other ;  that  does  n't  cost 
an3'thing." 

"  Why  do  3'ou  hide  him?  "  asked  Hortense. 

"  Because  he  lives  in  his  shirt-sleeves,"  answered 
Bette,  laughing. 

"  Do  you  love  him?  "  asked  Madame  Hulot. 

"  Ah,  I  should  think  so  !  I  love  him  for  himself,  the 
cherub !  It  is  now  four  years  since  I  took  him  into  my 
heart." 

"Well,  if  you  reall}^  love  him  for  himself,"  said  Ma- 
dame Hulot,  gravel}^  "  that  is,  if  he  really  exists,  3'ou 
do  very  wrong  towards  him.  You  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  love." 

"We  are  all  born  to  know  that  business!"  cried 
Bette. 

"No;  there  are  some  women  who  love  and  who 
stay  selfish  through  it  all ;  and  that 's  3'our  case,"  said 
the  baroness. 

Bette  lowered  her  head  at  this,  and  the  glance  of  her 
e3'e  would  have  made  whoever  received  it  shudder ;  but 
it  fell  on  her  Ivuitting. 

"  If  3'ou  bring  the  lover  (if  there  is  a  lover)  here, 
Hector  may  be  able  to  find  him  a  situation,  and./g 
him  in  the  way  to  get  on/'  resumed  Madame  Hulief  a 


Cousin   Bette.  61 

'•  That 's  impossible  !  "  answered  Bette. 

"Why  so?" 

"  He  's  a  Pole,  —  a  sort  of  refugee." 

"A  conspirator!"  exclaimed  Hortense.  "Oh,  3'ou 
happy  woman  !     Has  he  had  adventures  ?  " 

"Yes;  he  fought  for  Poland.  He  was  professor  in 
a  college  where  the  rebellion  first  broke  out  among  the 
collegians,  and,  as  he  owed  his  appointment  to  the 
Grand-duke  Constantine,  he  has  no  chance  of  being 
pardoned." 

"  Professor  of  what?  " 

"  The  fine  arts." 

"  Did  he  come  to  Paris  after  the  defeat?" 

"  He  crossed  Germany  on  foot  in  1833." 

"  Poor  3'ouug  man  !  how  old  is  he? " 

' '  He  was  twent3'-four  at  the  time  of  the  rebellion ; 
he  is  barely  twent^'-nine  now." 

"  Fifteen  years  younger  than  you!"  said  Madame 
Hulot. 

"  How  does  he  support  himself?"  asked  Hortense. 

"By  his  talents." 

"  Does  he  give  lessons?" 

"No,"  answered  Bette;  "he  receives  them,  —  and 
hard  ones,  too." 

"  What  is  his  Christian  name?     Is  it  pretty?" 

"  Wenceslas." 

"What  an  imagination  old  maids  have!"  cried  the 
baroness.  "  To  hear  you  talk,  Lisbeth,  one  would  think 
you  believed  what  3'ou  are  saying." 

All  three  began  to  laugh.  Hortense  sang,  "  Wen- 
daugnc.  i(^oi  of  i^y  soul!"  instead  of  "Oh,  Matilde  !  " 
talkmg  truce  v.as   declared. 


52  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE  YOUNG  MAID  AND  THE  OLD  ONE. 

"  You  3'oiing  giiis,"  said  cousin  Bette,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  their  next  meeting,  "  think  no  one  is  ever  loved 
but  yourselves." 

"  Well,"  answered  Hortense,  "  prove  to  me  that 
Wenceslas  is  not  a  n\vth,  and  I  '11  give  you  my  vellovv 
cashmere  shawl." 

"  He  is  a  count." 

"  All  Poles  are  counts." 

"He  is  not  exactl}-  a  Pole;  he  comes  fron  Li — 
Lith—  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Lithuania?  " 

"No." 

"Livonia?" 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"  Tell  me  his  name." 

"  How  do  I  know  whether  yon  can  keep  a  secret?  " 

"  Oh,  cousin,  I  '11  be  as  mute  as — " 

"A  fish?" 

"As  a  fish." 

"  By  your  eternal  salvation  ?  " 

"  By  my  eternal  salvation." 

"  No,  tliat  won't  do,  —  by  all  3'our  earthl}'  happiness  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  liis  name  is  Wenceslas  Steinbock." 


Cousin  Bette.  53 

"That's  the  iiaiiie  of  one  of  Charles  the  Twelfth's 
generals." 

"  His  great  uncle.  His  father  went  to  live  in  Livo- 
nia after  the  death  of  the  king  of  Sweden  ;  but  he  lost 
all  his  propert}'  during  the  campaign  of  1812,  and  died 
leaving  the  poor  bo}',  then  eight  3'ears  old,  without  re- 
sources. The  Grand-duke  Constantine  took  him  under 
his  protection,  on  account  of  the  name  of  Steinbock, 
and  sent  him  to  school." 

"  I  won't  go  back  on  my  word,"  said  Horteuse. 
"prove  his  existence,  and  the  shawl  is  yours;  it  is 
the  very  color  for  your  brown  skin." 

"  Promise  3-ou  will  keep  m}^  secret." 

"  I  '11  give  3'ou  mine  in  exchange." 

'•  Well,  the  next  time  I  come  I  '11  bring  the  proof 
with  me." 

"  But  the  proof  must  be  the  lover  himself,"  said 
Hortense. 

Cousin  Bette,  a  victim,  ever  since  her  arrival  in  Paris, 
to  a  longing  for  cashmere  shawls,  w^as  fascinated  by  the 
thought  of  possessing  this  particular  yellow  camel's- 
hair,  given  by  the  baron  to  his  wife  in  1808,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  certain  families  passed  over  to  the 
daughter  in  1830.  During  the  last  ten  3'ears  the  shawl 
had  grown  the  worse  for  wear,  but  still  the  precious 
fabric,  alwa3's  carefully  laid  away  in  a  sandal-wood 
box,  seemed,  like  Madame  Hulot's  furniture,  to  keep 
its  freshness  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  maid.  Therefore, 
on  the  day  in  which  our  storj'  opens  she  had  brought 
a  birthday  present  in  her  bag  for  the  baroness,  which 
was  also  to  be  a  means  of  proving  to  Hortense  the 
existence  of  the  mysterious  lover. 


54  Cousin  Bette. 

The  present  was  a  silver  seal  cut  with  three  figures 
entwined  in  garlands  and  bearing  up  a  globe.  They  rep- 
resented Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  Their  feet  rested 
on  monsters  who  were  writhing  and  rending  each  other, 
among  them  the  s^'mbolic  serpent.  In  1846,  after  the 
immense  stride  in  the  art  of  Benvenuto  Cellini  taken  by 
Mademoiselle  de  Fauveau,  Wagner,  Jeanest,  Froment- 
Meurice,  and  the  carvers  in  wood  like  Lienard.  this  lit- 
tle masterpiece  might  have  passed  unnoticed  ;  but  at  the 
time  of  which  we  write  a  3'oung  girl  able  to  judge  of  jew- 
elry was  naturally  enchanted  as  she  examined  the  seal 
which  Bette  placed  in  her  hand  with  the  remark,  "  There, 
what  do  you  think  of  that?  "  The  little  figures  belonged, 
in  design,  draper}^,  and  action,  to  the  school  of  Raphael ; 
in  execution  they  recalled  the  work  of  the  Florentine 
bronze  school  created  b}'  Donatello,  Brunelleschi,  Ghi- 
berti,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  John  of  Bologna,  etc.  The 
French  renaissance  never  contorted  more  misshapen 
monsters  than  those  which  s^'mbolized  evil  passions. 
The  palms  and  ferns,  the  reeds  and  rushes,  that  draped 
the  Virtues  were  disposed  and  grouped  with  a  witching 
charm  disheartening  to  workers  of  the  craft.  A  fillet 
held  the  three  heads  lightly  bound  together,  and  on  the 
background  space  between  them  were  engraved  the 
letter  W,  a  chamois,  and  the  word  fecit. 

''Who  did  it?"  asked  Hortense. 

"  My  lover,  of  course,"  answered  Bette.  "  There  's 
ten  months'  labor  in  it.  I  earn  more  at  making  sword- 
knots.  He  tells  me  that  '  Steinboek '  means  in  German 
a  rock-deer  or  chamois.  That 's  the  way  he  signs  his 
work.    Ah,  I  shall  have  your  shawl  —  " 

"Why  so?" 


Oousin  Bette.  55 

"  Could  I  bu}'  such  a  gem  as  that?  Impossible  ;  con- 
sequently it  was  given  to  me.  Who  is  likely  to  make 
such  a  present?    A  lover,  of  course." 

Hortense,  with  a  wariness  that  would  have  frightened 
Lisbeth  Fischer  if  she  had  noticed  it,  was  careful  not  to 
express  all  the  admiration  that  she  felt ;  but  in  truth 
she  had  just  received  that  shock  of  delight  which  comes 
to  souls  that  are  open  to  the  beautiful  when  they  behold 
a  faultless,  perfect,  and  unexpected  masterpiece. 

"  It  is  reall}'  lovely,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  it  is  lovely,"  said  the  old  maid  ;  "  but  I  pre- 
fer the  orange  cashmere.  AVell,  little  one,  m}'  lover 
spends  all  his  time  working  on  such  things.  Since  he 
came  to  Paris  he  has  made  three  or  four  little  knick- 
knacks  of  that  kind,  and  there  's  the  whole  result  of 
four  3^ears'  study  and  labor.  He  apprenticed  himself  at 
a  foundry  to  learn  casting,  and  then  at  a  jeweller's  — 
bah  !  every  penn}'  he  had  went  that  way.  But  he  tells 
me  he  shall  be  rich  and  famous  in  a  few  months." 

"  Then  3'ou  really  do  see  him?" 

' '  Do  you  think  I  tim  making  it  all  up  ?  I  have  told 
you  the  truth  in  joke." 

"  And  he  loves  3-ou?"  asked  Hortense,  eagerly. 

"  He  adores  me,"  answered  her  cousin,  speaking  seri- 
ousty.  "  The  fact  is,  my  pet,  he  has  onl}-  known  those 
pale,  insipid  women  of  the  North ;  a  dark,  j'oung,  sup- 
ple girl  like  me  has  warmed  him  up.  But  say  nothing 
about  it ;  you  promised  me  that." 

*'  You  will  treat  him  like  all  the  five  others,"  said 
Hortense,  maliciouslj',  as  she  looked  at  the  seal. 

"  Six,  if  3^ou  please  ;  I  left  one  behind  me  in  Lorraine 
who  would  get  me  the  moon  to-day  if  I  cried  for  it." 


56  Cousin  Bette. 

"  This  one  does  better  still;  he  gives  you  the  sun." 

"  But  I  can't  turn  it  into  mone}'.  One  must  have  a 
great  estate  before  the  shining  of  the  sun  will  bring  us 
any  profit." 

These  little  jokes,  followed  by  nonsense  that  can  be 
easil}^  guessed  at,  caused  the  laughter  which  redoubled 
Madame  Hulot's  distress  ;  it  forced  her  to  compare  her 
daughter's  future  with  her  present  light-heartedness  as 
the  girl  gave  way  to  the  ga3'etv  of  her  3'ears. 

"  But  if  he  gives  3'ou  a  gem  that  has  cost  him  six 
months'  labor,  he  must  be  under  some  great  obligation 
to  3'ou,"  insisted  Hortense  ;  for  the  treasure  in  her  hand 
caused  her  sundrj^  reflections. 

"You  want  to  know  too  much,"  answered  Bette. 
"  However,  listen  ;  I  '11  let  you  into  the  scheme  —  " 

"With  your  lover?" 

"Ah!  you  want  to  see  him!  But  don't  you  know 
that  an  old  maid,  like  3'our  cousin  Bette,  who  has  hid- 
den a  lover  for  five  3'ears  can  hide  him  still.  No,  no  ; 
let  me  alone.  I  've  neither  cat  nor  canar3'-bird,  nor  dog 
nor  parrot.  An  old  nann3'  like  me  must  have  some  lit- 
tle bit  of  a  thing  to  love,  or  to  tease.  Well,  I  've  taken 
a  Pole." 

"  Has  he  a  moustache?  " 

"  Long  as  that,"  said  Bette,  holding  up  a  mesh  of 
gold  thread. 

She  alwa3's  brought  her  embroider3'  and  worked  while 
waiting  for  dinner. 

"  If  you  ask  me  so  many  questions  3'ou  will  never 
find  out  anything.  You  are  only  twent3'-two  3'ears 
old,  and  you  gossip  more  than  I  do  at  fort3'-two  — 
I  might  say  forty-three." 


Cousin   Bette.  57 

"  Well,  I'm  dumb  ;  1  'II  listen,"  said  Hortense. 

''  My  lover  has  made  a  bronze  group  ten  inches 
high,"  continued  cousin  Bette.  •'  It  represents  Sam- 
son conquering  a  lion.  He  buried  it  and  got  it  dis- 
colored and  rust}'  till  it  looks  to  be  as  old  as  Sam- 
son himself.  This  master-piece  is  in  the  window  of 
one  of  those  bric-a-brac  dealers  whose  shops  are  on 
the  place  du  Carrousel  quite  close  to  my  lodging.  If 
3'our  father,  who  knows  Monsieur  Popinot,  the  minister 
of  commerce  and  agriculture,  and  the  Comte  de  Ras- 
tignac,  would  speak  to  either  of  them  about  it,  and  call 
it  a  beautiful  antique  which  he  noticed  in  passing,  my 
lover's  fortune  would  be  made  by  the  mere  mention 
of  the  trumper}'  bit  of  brass ;  I  am  told  the  great  peo- 
ple think  more  of  such  things  now  than  of  sword-knots. 
M}'  poor  bo,y  declares  that  if  the}'  take  the  thing  for  an 
antique  the}'  will  pay  any  price  for  it.  If  one  of  the 
ministers  were  to  buy  the  gi'oup,  AVenceslas  could  come 
forward  and  prove  that  he  made  it  himself,  and  be 
carried  in  triumph !  Oh,  he  fancies  he  can  mount  the 
pinnacle  of  fame  !  he  's  proud,  that  young  man,  as  proud 
as  two  new-made  counts." 

"A  second  edition  of  Michael  Angelo ;  but,  for  a 
lover,  he  seems  to  have  kept  his  senses,"  remarked 
Hortense.     '-How  much  does  he  ask  for  it?" 

"  Fifteen  hundred  francs.  The  dealer  won't  let  it 
go  for  less  because  he  has  to  make  his  commission." 

"Papa  is  steward  of  the  King's  household  just  at 
present,"  said  Hortense.  "  He  meets  the  two  minis- 
ters every  day  at  the  Chamber,  and  I  '11  see  that  he 
does  what  you  want.  Tou  shall  be  a  rich  woman, 
Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Steinbock." 


58  Cousm  Bette. 

"No,  never;  my  man  is  too  liiz>' ;  he  spends  whole 
weeks  twisting  red  wax  and  doing  nothing.  He  is 
alwa^'S  at  tlie  Louvre  or  the  Bibliotheque,  turning  over 
prints  and  making  sketches.     He  is  an  idler." 

The  two  cousins  continued  to  joke  and  chatter ;  but 
Hortense  laughed  a  forced  laugh,  for  she  was  suddenh* 
seized  b}'  a  feeling  which  comes  to  all  young  girls,  — 
love  for  something  unknown,  love  in  its  vague  state, 
when  thoughts  begin  to  gather  about  a  shape  which 
chance  has  flung  in  its  wa}^,  like  the  frost-flowers  which 
the  breeze  designs  upon  a  window  pane.  For  the  last 
few  months  Hortense  had  played  with  the  idea  of 
Bette's  fantastic  lover,  pretending  that  he  was  a  real 
being  because  she  believed,  as  did  her  mother,  in  the 
confirmed  ceiibac}^  of  their  cousin ;  and  now,  for  the 
last  week,  the  phantom  had  become  a  Comte  Wenceslas 
Steinbock  ;  the  vision  had  a  certificate  of  baptism  ;  the 
misty  figure  solidified  into  a  3'oung  man  thirty  years  of 
age.  The  seal  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  an  Annun- 
ciation, as  it  were,  of  genius  breaking  forth  like  light, 
had  the  power  of  a  talisman.  Hortense  felt  so  happy 
that  she  began  to  believe  in  the  truth  of  the  story ;  her 
blood  stirred,  and  she  laughed  idioticall}'^  with  a  desire 
to  divert  her  cousin's  observation. 

"  I  think  I  saw  mamma  open  the  door  of  the  salon, 
cousin  Bette,"  she  said;  "let  us  go  and  see  if  Mon- 
sieur Crevel  has  gone.  Poor  mamma  has  been  sad  for 
two  days  ;  that  marriage  the}'  were  talking  of  must  be 
broken  off." 

"  Bah  !  it  can  be  brought  on  again.  It  was  —  I  may 
tell  you  this  much  —  with  a  law3'er  of  the  supreme 
court.     Should  you  like  to  be  Madame  la  presidente? 


i 


Cousin  Bette.  59 

If  it  depends  on  Monsieur  Crevel,  he  will  tell  me  some- 
thing about  it,  and  I  shall  know  what  hope  there  is." 

"  Cousin,  leave  the  seal  with  me,"  said  Hortense. 
"  I  won't  show  it  to  mamma  ;  her  biithda}-  is  a  month 
hence,  and  I  will  give  it  back  to  you  before  then." 

''  No,  give  it  me  now  ;  it  must  have  a  case." 

"  But  I  want  to  show  it  to  papa,  so  that  he  may 
know  what  he  is  talking  about  when  he  mentions  the 
Samson  to  the  ministers  ;  people  in  authority  are  so 
afraid  of  compromising  themselves." 

"Well,  don't  show  it  to  your  mother,  that's  all  I 
ask ;  if  she  knew  that  I  really  had  a  lover  she  would 
make  fun  of  me,"  replied  Bette. 

"  I  promise  j'ou  I  won't." 

The  two  cousins  reached  the  door  of  the  boudoir  just 
as  Madame  Ilulot  fainted,  and  Hortense's  cry  of  terror 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  Bette  ran  for  salts  ;  when 
she  returned  she  found  mother  and  daughter  in  each 
other's  arms,  the  mother  soothing  the  daughter's  fears, 
and  saying,  — 

"It  is  nothing,  nothing;  only  a  nervous  attack. 
Here  comes  your  father,"  she  added,  recognizing  the 
baron's  way  of  ringing  the  bell.  '•  Be  sure  you  do  not 
tell  him  of  this."  ^, 

Adehne  rose  to  meet  her  husband,  intending  to  take 
him  into  the  garden  while  waiting  for  dinner,  and  there 
speak  to  him  of  the  ruptured  marriage,  compel  him  to 
talk  of  the  future,  and  try  to  give  him  a  little  advice. 

Baron  Hector  Hulot  appeared  in  a  parliamentary 
and  Napoleonic  attire.  It  was  easy  to  recognize  the 
men  formerly  attached  to  the  empire  by  their  military 
carriage,  their  blue  coats  and  gilt  buttons  buttoned  to 


60  Cousin  Bette. 

the  throat,  their  black  silk  neckcloths,  and  an  authori- 
tative step  and  manner  contracted  from  the  habit  of 
despotic  command  required  b}^  the  rapidly  changing 
circumstances  in  which  they  lived.  It  must  be  owned 
that  there  was  nothing  of  the  old  man  about  the  baron ; 
his  e^-esight  was  still  so  good  that  he  could  read  with- 
out spectacles  ;  his  handsome  oval  face,  framed  with 
whiskers  (alas,  too  black  !),  had  a  healthy  skin  marbled 
with  red  and  showing  a  sanguine  temperament ;  his 
stomach,  carefully  belted  in,  attained,  in  the  words  of 
Brillat-Savarin,  to  the  majestic.  A  marked  air  of 
'  aristocracy  and  much  affability  were  the  outward  dis- 
guise of  the  libertine  with  whom  Crevel  had  shared  so 
manj^  little  suppers.  He  was  one  of  the  men  whose 
eyes  glisten  on  catching  sight  of  a  pretty  woman,  men 
who  smile  at  all  beauties,  even  those  they  pass  in  the 
streets  and  may  never  meet  again. 

"Have  you  been  speaking,  dear?"  said  Adeline, 
noticing  his  anxious  brow. 

''No,"  replied  Hector;  '-but  I  am  worn  out  listen- 
ing to  others  for  two  hours  without  coming  to  a  vote. 
They  battle  with  words,  and  their  speeches  are  like 
charges  of  cavalry  which  never  scatter  the  enemy.  Talk 
is  substituted  for  action  ;  and  that  can't  please  men  who 
are  accustomed  to  advance,  as  I  told  the  marechal  just 
now  when  I  came  away.  But  I  have  been  bored  enough 
on  the  bench  of  ministers;  come,  let's  be  ga}^  here! 
Good  evening,  Nann3'-goat ;  how  are  you,  little  kid?" 

He  took  hi^;  daughter  by  the  neck,  kissed  her,  teased 
her,  put  her  on  his  knee,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder  to  feel  the  golden  hair  across  his  cheek. 

"He  is  tired  and  bored,"  thought  Madame  Hulot, 


Cousin  Bette.  61 

"  and  I  shall  have  to  woriT  him  still  more  ;  I  will  wait. 
Shall  3'0ii  stay  at  home  to-night? "  she  said  aloud. 

"No,  m}'  dear.  After  dinner  I  am  obliged  to  go 
out.  If  this  were  not  the  da}'  when  ray  brother  and 
cousin  Bette  dine  here  3'ou  would  not  have  seen  me 
at  all !  " 

The  baroness  picked  up  the  newspaper,  looked  at  the 
theatre-list,  and  laid  it  down  again  after  reading  the 
programme  for  Robert  le  Diable  at  the  opera.  Josepha, 
who  had  left  the  Italian  for  the  French  opera,  was  to 
sing  the  part  of  Alice.  This  pantomine  did  not  escape 
the  baron,  who  looked  fixedl}^  at  his  wife.  Adeline 
lowered  her  eyes,  and  went  into  the  garden,  where  he 
followed  her. 

"Come,  Adeline,  what  is  it?"  he  said,  taking  her 
round  the  waist  and  pressing  her  to  him.  "  Don't  3'ou 
know  I  love  3'ou  better  than  —  " 

"  Jenny  Cadine  andJosepha?"  she  said  boldh',  in- 
terrupting him. 

"  Who  told  3'ou  that?  "  said  the  baron,  releasing  her 
and  stepping  back  two  paces. 

"An  anonymous  letter,  which  I  have  burned,  and 
which  told  me  also  that  our  daughter's  marriage  is  de- 
feated because  our  circumstances  are  so  embarrassed. 
Your  wife,  m}'  dear  Hector,  would  never  have  said  a 
word  ;  she  knew  your  liaison  with  Jenn}'  Cadine.  Did 
she  ever  complain  ?  But  the  mother  of  Hortense  must 
tell  you  the  truth  —  " 

Hulot,  after  a  terrible  moment  of  suspense  for  his 
wife,  the  beating  of  whose  heart  could  be  distincth' 
heard,  unfolded  his  arms,  threw  them  round  her, 
pressed  her  to  his  heart,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead, 


62  Cousin   Bette. 

and  said,  with  tlie  ardor  of  enthusiasm,  "  Adeline,  j'^ou 
are  an  angel,  and  I  am  a  wretch !  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  the  baroness,  putting  her  hand  upon 
his  lips  to  prevent  his  saving  evil  of  himself. 

"Yes,  I  have  not  a  penn}^  to  give  Hortense  ;  and  I 
am  ver}'  unhapp3\  Now  that  30U  open  your  heart  to 
me,  I  can  pour  into  it  all  the  troubles  that  are  choking 
mine.  Your  uncle  Fischer  is  embarrassed,  and  it  is 
through  me.  I  got  him  to  endorse  a  bill  for  twentj'-five 
thousand  francs,  —  and  all  for  a  woman  who  deceives 
me,  who  makes  fun  of  me  when  ni}-  back  is  turned, 
who  calls  me  an  old  dyed  cat!  Oh,  it  is  horrible, 
horrible  that  vice  should  cost  more  than  the  support  of 
a  familj^  —  and  3'et  it  is  irresistible  !  I  might  promise 
you  at  this  moment  never  to  see  that  abominable  Jew- 
ish woman  again,  but  if  she  wrote  me  a  single  line  I 
should  go,  just  as  we  followed  the  Emperor  under  fire." 

"Don't  worr}'  j^ourself.  Hector,"  said  the  poor,  dis- 
tressed woman,  forgetting  her  daughter  at  sight  of  her 
husband's  tears.  "I  have  my  diamonds;  take  them 
and  save  ni}'  uncle  at  all  hazards !  " 

"  Your  diamonds  are  scarceh'  worth  twent}'  thousand 
francs,  and  that  is  not  enough  to  save  old  Fischer. 
Keep  them  for  Hortense ;  I  will  consult  the  marechal 
to-morrow." 

"Poor  dear!"  cried  the  baroness,  taking  her  Hec- 
tor's hands  and  kissing  them. 

The  scene  was  a  homih'.  Adeline  offered  her  dia- 
monds, the  father  gave  them  to  Hortense ;  the  wife 
thought  his  sacrifice  sublime,  and  was  powerless. 

' '  He  is  master  ;  all  here  is  his.  He  leaves  me  those 
diamonds  ;   lie  is  divine." 


Cousin    Bette.  63 

Such  was  the  inward  thought  of  the  woman,  who  per- 
haps ganiecl  more  b}'  her  gentleness  than  she  could 
have  done  b}'  an  outburst  of  jealous  anger. 

A  moralist  cannot  den}^  that  persons  who  are  well- 
bred  and  verj'  vicious  are  often  more  agreeable  than 
virtuous  persons.  Having  sins  to  redeem,  the}'  bid  for 
indulgence  b}'  being  facile  and  forbearing  with  their 
judges,  and  thus  they  pass  for  excellent  human  beings. 
Though  there  are  many  charming  people  among  the 
virtuous,  virtue  considers  herself  so  beautiful  that  she 
ma}^  dispense  with  the  cultivation  of  charm  ;  moreover 
persons  who  are  really  virtuous  (we  must  eliminate 
hypocrites)  are  alwa3's  slightly  doubtful  of  their  posi- 
tion ;  thc}^  are  apt  to  think  themselves  worsted  in  the 
great  bargain  of  life,  and  give  vent  to  sharp  speeches 
after  the  manner  of  those  who  fanc}'  themselves  under- 
valued. The  baron,  knowing  he  was  to  blame  for  the 
ruin  of  his  famil}',  now  displayed  all  the  resources  of 
his  mind  and  his  seductive  graces  to  his  wife,  his  chil- 
dren, and  his  cousin  Bette.  When  his  son  and  Celes- 
tine  Crevel  (who  was  nursing  a  little  Hulot)  arrived  for 
the  family  dinner,  he  was  all  attention  to  his  daughter- 
in-law,  and  fed  her  with  compliments,  —  a  form  of  nour- 
ishment to  which  Celestine's  vanity  was  not  accustomed, 
for  no  heiress  of  the  people  was  ever  more  common- 
place or  more  utterh'  insignificant.  The  grandfather 
took  the  bab}',  kissed  it,  called  it  charming  and  deli- 
cious, talked  baby-talk,  prophesied  that  the  little  puppet 
would  be  a  greater  man  than  he,  and  slipped  in  a  few 
flatteries  for  his  son,  3'oung  Hulot,  as  he  returned  the  in- 
fant to  the  arms  of  its  stout  Norman  nurse.  Celestine 
exchanged   a  glance   with  the    baroness,  which  meant 


64  Cousin   Bette. 

"  What  a  charming  man  !  "  Is  it  an}'  wonder  that  she 
defended  her  father-in-law  against  the  accusations  of 
her  own  parent? 

After  pla3'ing  the  agreeable  father-in-law  and  the 
idolizing  grandfather,  the  baron  took  his  son  into  the 
garden  to  give  him  some  sensible  advice  about  the  posi- 
tion he  ought  to  take  in  the  Chamber  on  the  following 
day,  when  a  certain  delicate  matter  was  to  be  brought 
up.  The  3'oung  law3'er,  filled  with  admiration  for  his 
father's  deep-sigiited  judgment,  was  touched  b}'  his  tone 
of  friendly  confidence,  above  all  by  the  sort  of  deference 
with  which  he  seemed  desirous  to  put  his  son  on  a  level 
with  himself. 

Hulot  the  3'ounger  was  a  fair  specimen  of  the  3'oung 
men  manufactured  by  the  revolution  of  1830,  —  minds 
infatuated  with  pohties,  solicitous  about  their  own  expec- 
tations, but  hiding  them  under  a  false  show  of  political 
earnestness,  verv'  jealous  of  men  whose  reputations  are 
made,  enunciating  phrases,  but  never  those  incisive  sa3-- 
ings  which  are  the  diamonds  of  French  speech,  con- 
ventional in  deportment,  and  mistaking  arrogance  for 
dignit3\  These  men  are  the  perambulating  coffins  which 
contain  the  Frenchmen  of  other  days ;  the  Frenchman 
within  stirs  ever}"  now  and  then  and  beats  against  his 
British  casket ;  but  am])ition  checks  him,  and  he  con- 
sents to  be  smothered.  This  coffin,  we  ma3'  remark,  is 
alwa3's  covered  with  black  cloth. 

"Ah!  here's  my  brother,"  said  Baron  Hulot,  ad- 
vancing to  the  door  of  the  salon  to  meet  thi^  count. 

After  embracing  the  probable  successor  of  the  late 
Marechal  Montcornet,  he  led  him  forward  h\  the  arm 
with  ever}^  sign  of  affection   and  respect. 


Cousin  Bette.  65 

This  peer  of  France,  who  was  excused  from  attend- 
ing the  sessions  of  his  Chamber  on  account  of  deafness, 
had  a  noble  head,  cahned  b}'  3'ears,  and  covered  with 
gray  hair,  still  sufficiently  abundant  to  show  the  pressure 
of  his  hat.  Short,  stocky,  and  yet  spare,  he  carried  his 
green  old  age  with  a  sprightly  air,  and  as  he  retained 
all  his  activit}',  though  condemned  by  his  deafness  to 
an  idle  life,  he  spent  his  time  in  reading  and  in  walk- 
ing about.  His  simple  habits  and  principles  could  be 
guessed  from  the  pure  tones  of  his  face,  his  free  carriage 
and  manner,  and  his  straight- for  ward  talk  on  sensible 
matters.  He  never  spoke  of  war  or  of  his  own  cam- 
paigns ;  he  was  too  great  to  make  any  claim  to  great- 
ness. In  a  salon  he  confined  himself  to  the  quiet  part 
of  continually  observing  and  anticipating  the  wishes  of 
women. 

"  You  are  all  very  gay,"  he  said,  noticing  the  ani- 
mation which  the  baron's  presence  caused  in  the  fam- 
ily- circle.  "  Hortense  is  not  yet  married,"  he  added, 
observing  traces  of  distress  on  his  sister-in-law's  coun- 
tenance. 

"  That  will  happen  soon  enough,"  screamed  Bette 
in  his  ear  with  a  startling  voice. 

"  Ah  !  there  3'ou  are,  naughty  girl  who  is  determined 
to  die  an  old  maid  !  "  he  answered,  laughing. 

The  hero  of  Forzheim  was  rather  fond  of  Bette,  for 
there  were  certain  likenesses  between  the  two.  With- 
out education,  springing  as  he  did  from  the  people,  his 
braver}-  had  been  the  sole  architect  of  his  military  for- 
tune, and  his  sound  common-sense  had  stood  him  in 
place  of  intellect.  Full  of  a  sense  of  honor  and  pure  in 
deed,  he  was  now  ending  a  noble  life,  in  the  midst  of  a 

5 


66  Cousin  Bette. 

family  where  all  bis  affections  centred,  and  whei'e  no 
suspicion  of  his  brother's  secret  misdoings  reached  him. 
No  one  enjoyed  more  than  lie  the  lovely'  spectacle  of 
domestic  union,  where  no  contention  ever  rose  and  the 
brothers  and  sisters  loved  each  other  with  an  equal  affec- 
tion,—  for  Celestine  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
famil}^  a  fact  which  made  the  kindly  little  count  in- 
quire from  time  to  time  why  her  father  did  not  make 
his  appearance. 

"  My  father  has  gone  into  the  countrj^,"  cried  Celes- 
ftne  in  his  ear. 

This  genuine  affection  and  family  union  made  Ma- 
dame Hulot  reflect  deepl3\  "It  is  the  surest  of  all 
happinesses,"  she  thought;  "what  can  take  it  from 
us?" 

When  the  old  general  noticed  the  attentions  which  his 
favorite  Adeline  receis^ed  from  her  husband,  he  made  so 
many  little  jests  that  the  baron,  afraid  of  ridicule,  turned 
his  gallantr}^  to  his  daughter-in-law,  who  at  these  fam- 
11}^  dinners  was  alwaj's  the  special  object  of  his  flatter}' 
and  devotion  ;  for  he  hoped  through  her  to  keep  old 
Crevel  in  good  humor  and  mollify  his  resentment.  An}' 
one  looking  in  upon  this  f\imily  scene  would  have  found 
it  difficult  to  believe  that  the  father  was  well-nigh  ruined, 
the  mother  in  despair,  the  son  in  the  depths  of  anxiety 
as  to  his  father's  future,  and  the  daughter  devising  in 
her  heart  how  to  steal  a  lover  from  her  cousin. 


Cousin  Bette.  67 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IN  WHICH  PRETTY  WOMEN  ARE  SEEN  TO  FLUTTER  BEFORE 
LIBERTINES,  JUST  AS  DUPES  PUT  THEMSELVES  IN  THE 
WAY    OF    SWINDLERS. 

About  seven  o'clock,  or  as  soon  as  the  baron  saw 
his  brother,  wife,  son,  and  daughter  sitting  down  to 
whist,  he  departed  to  applaud  his  mistress  at  the  opera, 
taking  with  him  his  cousin  Bette,  who  lived  in  the  rue 
du  Do3'enne,  and  alwa3's  made  the  loneliness  of  that 
locality  an  excuse  to  get  awa}'  earty  after  dinner.  All 
Parisians  will  admit  that  the  old  maid's  precaution  was 
reasonable. 

The  retention  of  the  block  of  houses  which  still  ex- 
ists along  the  side  of  the  old  Louvre  is  one  of  those 
protests  against  common-sense  which  Frenchmen  per- 
sist in  making,  apparently'  that  Europe  may  feel  easy 
as  to  the  real  measure  of  their  inteUigence,  and  cease 
to  fear  it.  Perhaps  we  have  some  great  political  mo- 
tive, unknown  to  ourselves,  in  this  retention.  It  is 
therefore  not  a  digression  to  describe  this  corner  of 
the  Paris  of  the  present  da}- ;  in  after  j^ears  no  one 
will  be  able  to  imagine  it,  and  our  nephews,  who  will 
doubtless  see  the  Louvre  completed,  ma}'  refuse  to  be- 
lieve that  such  a  piece  of  barbarism  existed  for  thirt}'- 
six  years  in  the  heart  of  Paris,  under  the  windows  of 
a  palace  where  three  dynasties  received,  during  those 
thirt3'-six  years ,  the  elite  of  France  and  of  Europe .    Every 


/ 


68  Cousin  Bette. 

one  who  comes  to  Paris  for  no  more  than  a  few  da3^s 
must  notice  between  the  iron  gate  which  leads  to  the 
pont  du  Carrousel  and  the  rue  du  Musee,  a  dozen 
houses  with  tumble-down  walls,  whose  owners,  consid- 
ering them  worthless,  are  unwilling  to  repair  them,  but 
allow  them  to  stand  as  the  last  remnant  of  a  former 
neighborhood  pulled  down  under  Napoleon's  orders 
when  he  determined  to  complete  the  Louvre.  The  street 
and  cul-de-sac,  called  Doyenne,  are  the  only  roadwaj's 
through  this  dark  and  deserted  cluster  of  buildings, 
whose  inhabitants  are  probabh'  phantoms,  for  no  one 
is  ever  seen  there.  The  roadbed,  which  is  much  lower 
than  the  chaussee  of  the  rue  du  Musee,  is  on  a  level 
with  that  of  the  rue  Froidmanteau.  The  houses,  for  this 
reason  half-buried,  are  still  further  sunken  in  the  per- 
petual shadow  cast  by  the  upper  galleries  of  the  Louvre, 
blackened  on  this  side  by  the  action  of  the  north  wind. 
The  gloom,  the  silence,  the  icy  air,  the  cavernous  de- 
pression of  the  soil,  all  combine  to  make  the  area  of 
these  houses  a  sort  of  cr3'pt,  in  which  each  building  is 
a  living  tomb.  If  we  pass  through  this  half-defunct 
quarter  in  a  cab,  and  look  up  the  blind  allej^  which 
opens  on  the  street,  our  minds  shiver :  we  ask  our- 
selves who  can  possibty  live  here^  and  whether,  if  we 
passed  at  night,  we  should  see  the  alley  swarming  with 
cut-throats,  and  all  the  vices  of  Paris  mantled  in 
darkness  giving  themselves  full  swing.  This  idea, 
alarming  in  itself,  becomes  terrifying  when  we  notice 
that  these  strange  houses  are  circled  by  a  marsh  on  the 
side  of  the  rue  de  Richelieu,  by  a  paved  desert  towards 
the  Tuileries,  by  little  gardens  and  treacherous-looking 
sheds  under  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  and  by  long 


Cousin  Bette.  69 

stretches  of  broken  stone  left  from  the  pulling  down  of 
former  houses  on  the  side  of  the  old  Louvre.  Henry 
III.  and  his  minions  searching  for  their  hose,  the  lovers 
of  Marguerite  searching  for  their  heads,  must  dance 
many  a  saraband  b}^  the  light  of  the  moon  in  these 
deserted  places,  still  overlooked  by  a  chapel  which  re- 
mains standing  as  if  to  prove  that  the  Catholic  religion, 
perennial  in  France,  survives  all  else.  For  forty  years 
the  Louvre  has  cried  aloud  through  the  jaws  of  those 
broken  walls,  those  yawning  windows,  "Pluck  these 
warts  from  my  face  !  "  But,  no  doubt,  some  utility  has 
been  discovered  in  this  cut-throat  region,  —  the  useful- 
ness, perhaps,  of  symbolizing  in  the  heart  of  Paris  the 
close  alliance  between  squalor  and  splendor  which  char- 
acterizes the  queen  of  capitals.  And  so  these  chill  ruins 
(in  whose  bosom  the  newspaper  of  the  legitimists  has 
acquired  the  disease  of  which  it  is  now  dying),  these 
wretched  hovels  of  the  rue  du  Musee,  with  the  fence  of 
boards  inclosing  them  on  one  side,  will  probably  have 
a  longer  and  more  prosperous  existence  than  the  three 
d3masties  who  have  looked  down  upon  them. 

After  1823  the  low  rents  in  these  houses,  doomed  to 
eventual  disappearance,  had  led  Lisbeth  Fischer  to  take 
up  her  abode  in  one  of  them,  in  spite  of  the  necessity' 
imposed  upon  her  by  the  character  of  the  neighborhood 
of  getting  home  before  dark.  This  necessit}'  chimed  in 
with  the  village  custom,  which  she  still  retained,  of  going 
to  bed  and  getting  up  with  the  sun,  —  a  custom  which 
ensures  to  country'  folk  a  notable  econoni}'  in  fuel  and 
ll^ts.  She  lived  in  one  of  the  houses  to  which  the 
pulling  down  of  the  famous  mansion  once  occupied  by 
Cambaceres  opened  a  view  of  the  whole  space. 


70  Cousin   Bette. 

Just  as  Baron  Hulot  left  his  wife's  cousin  at  tlie  door 
of  tliis  house  with  tlie  words,  "Adieu,  cousin,"  a  tin}', 
graceful,  prettj^  3'oung  woman,  dressed  with  much  ele- 
gance and  diffusing  a  fashionable  perfume,  passed  be- 
tween the  carriage  and  the  wall,  as  if  about  to  enter  the 
house.  The  lady  exchanged  a  glance  with  the  baron 
without  the  least  premeditation,  and  solely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  seeing  the  cousin  of  the  other  tenant ;  but  the 
baron  felt  the  keen  sensation  common  to  Parisians 
when  the}^  meet  a  pretty  woman  who  realizes,  as  the 
entomologists  sa}',  their  desiderata.  With  wise  de- 
liberation he  began  to  put  on  his  gloves  before  re- 
entering the  carriage,  so  as  to  recover  his  equanimit}- 
and  be  able  to  watch  the  young  woman,  whose  dress 
was  charming^  supported  and  swa3'ed  by  something 
better  than  those  hideous  and  fraudulent  under-petticoats 
of  crinoUne. 

"  There  's  a  pretty  little  woman,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"whose  happiness  I  would  gladly  make,  for  I'm  sure 
she  could  make  mine." 

When  the  unknown  lad}'  reached  the  landing  of  the 
stairway  of  the  main  building  on  the  street,  she  looked 
back  at  the  parte  cochere  from  the  corner  of  her  e3'e, 
without  exactly  turning  round,  and  saw  the  baron 
nailed  to  the  spot  by  admiration,  desire,  and  curiosit}'. 
Such  attraction  is  a  flower  whose  perfume  all  Parisian 
women  inhale  with  delight  when  it  comes  in  their  way. 
Some  women  who  are  truly  attached  to  their  dut}', 
virtuous  and  pretty  women,  come  home  dissatisfied  if 
they  have  not  gathered  their  little  bouquet  of  admiration 
durhig  their  walks  abroad. 

The  young  lady  went  quickly  upstairs.      Presently 


Cousin   Bette.  71 

the  vviudow  of  a  room  on  the  second  floor  opened,  and 
the  same  woman  showed  herself,  but  accompanied  by 
a  gentleman  whose  bald  head  and  somewhat  severe  eye 
proclaimed  a  husband. 

' '  Are  not  the}'  clever  and  sly,  those  women !  " 
thought  the  baron;  "she  is  showing  me  where  she 
lives.  That 's  a  little  too  strong,  —  especiall}-  in  this 
neighborhood.  I  must  take  care  what  I  'm  about." 
He  looked  up  when  he  got  back  into  the  cab,  where- 
upon the  man  and  wife  withdrew  quickl}',  as  if  the 
baron's  face  had  produced  the  mythological  effect  of 
Medusa's  head  upon  them. 

"One  would  think  they  knew  me!"  thought  Hulot. 
"  If  they  do,  that  explains  it  all." 

When  the  cab  had  driven  up  to  the  level  of  the  rue 
du  Musee,  the  baron  leaned  forward  once  more  to  see 
the  object  of  his  admiration,  and  found  that  she  had 
returned  to  the  open  window.  Apparently  ashamed  at 
being  caught,  she  drew  back  quickly.  "  Never  mind," 
thought  the  baron,  "  I  '11  find  out  who  she  is  from 
Bette." 

The  appearance  of  the  councillor  of  state  had  pro- 
duced, as  we  shall  see,  a  deep  impression  on  the  couple. 

"Wh3%  that's  Baron  Hulot,  at  the  head  of  the  de- 
partment in  which  my  office  is  !  "  cried  the  husband  as 
he  left  the  window. 

"Well  then,  Marneffe,  the  old  maid  on  the  third 
floor  on  the  other  side  of  the  court-yard,  who  lives  with 
that  young  man,  is  his  cousin.  How  odd,  that  we  should 
only  find  it  out  to-da}',  and  by  mere  chance  !  " 

"Mademoiselle  Fischer  living  with  a  young  man!" 
exclaimed   the   husband.      "  Servants'    gossip !    don't 


72  Cousin   Bette. 

talk  so  heedlessh'  of  a  councillor's  cousin  —  cousin  of  a 
man  who  makes  the  sun  to  shine  and  the  rain  to  rain  at 
the  ministr3-.  Come  to  dinner ;  I  've  been  waitmg  for 
you  since  four  o'clock." 

This  ver}^  prett}^  little  woman,  Madame  Marneffe, 
natural  daughter  of  the  Comte  de  Montcornet,  one  of 
Napoleon's  most  famous  generals,  was  married  on  the 
strength  of  a  dot  of  twenty  thousand  francs,  to  an 
under-clerk  in  the  War  Office.  The  influence  of  the  illus- 
trious lieutenant-general,  a  marshal  of  France  during  the 
last  six  months  of  his  life,  helped  the  quill-driver  to  the 
unhoped-for  position  of  head-clerk  of  his  department ; 
but  unfortunatel}^,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
about  to  be  appointed  sub-director,  the  marshal's  death 
cut  short  his  hopes  and  those  of  his  wife.  The  slender 
means  of  the  Sieur  Marneffe  —  for  the  dowry  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Valerie  Fortin  had  already  melted  awa}-, 
parti}"  in  payment  of  his  own  debts,  partty  in  the  ac- 
quisition of  such  things  as  a  bachelor  needs  for  the 
setting  up  of  a  home,  but  more  particularl}'  through  the 
extravagance  of  the  pretty  wife,  accustomed  in  her 
mother's  house  to  luxuries  she  was  unwilling  to  forego 
—  obliged  the  pair  to  practise  economy  in  the  matter 
of  rent.  The  situation  of  the  rue  du  Do^^enne,  not  far 
from  the  ministry  of  war  and  the  centres  of  Parisian 
life,  presented  attractions  to  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Marneffe,  who  for  the  last  four  years  had  lived  in  the 
same  house  with  Mademoiselle  Fischer. 
•.  >  Jean  Paul  Stanislas  Marneffe  belonged  to  a  certain 
tj'pe  of  Parisian  emplo3'e  which  escapes  downriglit 
brutishness  through  a  species  of  power  which  comes  of 
degradation.     This   little   thin   man,  with   scant}'  hair 


Cousin  Bette.  73 

and  beard,  a  blaiiclied,  etiolated  face,  worn-out  rather 
than  wrinkled,  e}  elids  rimmed  with  red  and  hidden  by 
spectacles,  mean  and  shuffling  in  gait  and  still  more 
mean  in  manner  and  bearing,  embodied  the  t3'pe  which 
we  all  imagine  of  a  man  brought  into  the  police  courts 
for  offences  against  morality. 

The  suite  of  rooms  occupied  by  this  household  —  a 
specimen  of  many  Parisian  homes  —  wore  the  deceitful 
appearance  of  sham  luxury  which  may  be  seen  in  such 
households.  In  the  salon  the  faded  cotton-velvet  of  the 
furniture  covering,  the  plaster  statuettes  pretending  to 
be  bronze,  the  clums}^  chandelier  painted  in  flat  color, 
with  its  cups  of  blown  glass,  the  carpet,  whose  cheap 
qualit}'  appeared  in  the  cotton  threads  put  in  by  the 
manufacturer  and  visible  to  the  naked  e3'e  at  the  first 
wear,  —  in  short,  everything,  down  to  the  \QYy  curtains 
which  taught  the  truth  that  woollen  damask  keeps  its 
glor}'  only  three  years,  proclaimed  the  family  poverty-  as 
plainly  as  a  ragged  beggar  stationed  at  a  church-door. 

The  dining-room,  ill-kept  by  a  single  servant,  had 
the  sickening  aspect  of  such  rooms  in  a  country  inn, 
where  everything  is  greasj"  and  unclean. 

Monsieur  Marneffe's  bedroom,  resembling  that  of  a 
student,  furnished  with  a  bachelor's  bed  and  other  arti- 
cles as  faded  and  worn  as  himself,  and  cleaned  only  once 
a  week,  -^  a  horrible  bedroom,  where  everything  la}'  lit- 
tered about,  and  old  slippers  hung  on  chairs  with  hair- 
cloth coverings  whose  pattern  was  traced  out  in  dust, 
—  betra^'ed  a  man  to  whom  his  home  was  a  matter  of 
indifference  ;  who  lived  abroad  in  gambling-houses  and 
cafes  c.nd  elsewhere. 

Madame's  bedroom,  on  the  other  hand,  was  an  ex- 


74  Cousin   Bette. 

ception  to  the  shameful  neglect  which  degraded  all  the 
other  rooms  of  the  establishment  where  the  curtains 
were  3ellow  with  smoke  and  dust,  and  the  child  of 
the  famil}',  evidently  left  to  himself,  strewed  his  pla}'- 
things  on  the  floor.  Valerie's  bedroom  and  dressing- 
room,  placed  in  the  wing  of  the  house,  elegantty  hung 
with  chintz,  and  furnished  in  ebonized  woods  and  a 
moquette  carpet,  were  redolent  of  a  prett}'  woman,  one, 
let  us  admit,  of  the  kept-mistress  type.  On  the  velvet 
draper}'  of  the  mantle-shelf  stood  a  clock  of  the  fashion 
of  the  period.  tTardinieres  of  Chinese  porcelain,  a  lit- 
tle dunherque  well  furnished,  the  bed,  toilet-table  and 
wardrobe  with  mirror  door,  a  tete-a-tete  sofa,  and  a 
variety  of  knick-knacks  and  other  trumpery  testified  to 
the  caprices  and  refinements  of  fashion. 

Though  the  whole  was  of  a  third-class  order  of  ele- 
gance and  wealth,  and  bore  the  date  of  a  three  3'ears' 
luxur}^  a  dandy  would  have  found  nothing  to  complain 
of,  unless  it  were  a  certain  stamp  of  bourgeoisie.  An 
expert  in  social  science  would  have  detected  the  exist- 
ence of  a  lover  in  several  costl}'  gewgaws  which  come 
onl}^  of  such  demi-gods,  unseen,  and  3'et  ever  near  mar- 
ried women  of  the  Marneflfe  type. 

The  dinner  which  awaited  husband,  wife,  and  child 
—  a  dinner  kept  back  since  four  in  the  afternoon  —  was 
enough  to  explain  the  financial  crisis  of  the  family,  for 
the  dinner-table  is  the  surest  thermometer  of  prosperity 
in  such  Parisian  households.  Bean  soup  and  a  bit  of 
veal,  with  potatoes  deluged  with  browned  water  called 
grav}',  a  dish  of  haricot  beans,  and  another  of  cher- 
ries of  poor  qualit}',  served  and  eaten  on  chipped  dishes 
and  plates,  with  miserable  forks  and  spoons  of  German 


Cousin  Bette.  75 

silver.  Was  that  a  proper  repast  for  a  pretty  woman  ? 
The  baron  would  have  wept  had  he  seen  it.  The  cloudj' 
decanters  did  not  conceal  the  horrid  color  of  the  wine 
bought  by  the  quart  from  the  casks  of  some  corner 
wine-shop.  The  napkins  had  been  used  a  week.  In 
short,  everything  bespoke  povert}'  without  dignit}-,  and 
the  indifference  of  the  wife  and  of  the  husband  for  the 
decencies  of  famil}'  life.  The  most  ordinary  observer 
would  have  felt  as  he  beheld  them  that  the  pair  had 
reached  the  fatal  moment  when  sheer  necessit}'  of  ex- 
istence was  driving  them  to  seek  some  luck}-  method 
of  swindling  for  a  living. 

The  first  words  said  b}'  Valerie  to  her  husband  will 
explain  the  delay  in  the  dinner  hour. 

"  Samanon  won't  take  3'our  notes  for  less  than  fifty 
per  cent,  and  he  requires  3'ou  to  assign  over  3'our 
salar}'." 

Povert}',  secret  as  3'et  in  case  of  the  director  at  the 
War  department,  —  who  had,  moreover,  a  salar3'  of 
twent3'-five  thousand  francs,  not  to  mention  perqui- 
sites, to  fall  back  upon,  —  had  reached  its  last  phase 
with  the  subordinate. 

"Have  3'ou  snared  the  baron?"  said  the  husband, 
looking  at  the  wife. 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  answered,  not  horrified  at  the 
expression. 

"What's  to  become  of  us?"  continued  Marneffe. 
"  The  landlord  will  seize  eveiything  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. The  idea  of  3'Our  father  d3'ing  without  a  will !  I 
swear  those  empire  fellows  think  themselves  as  immor- 
tal as  their  emperor." 

"  Poor  papa !  "  she  said  ;  "  he  had  no  child  but  me, 


76  Cousin  Bette. 

and  he  loved  me.  The  countess  must  have  burned  his 
will.  It  is  n't  likely  that  he  forgot  me  ;  he  was  alwa3^s 
giving  us  three  or  four  thousand  francs  at  a  time." 

"We  owe  four  quarters'  rent,  —  fifteen  hundred  francs. 
Is  our  furniture  worth  as  much?  —  that  is  the  question, 
as  Shakespeare  sa3's." 

"  Well,  adieu,  m}'  dear,"  said  Valerie,  who  had  only 
swallowed  a  couple  of  mouthfuls  of  the  veal,  from  which 
the  cook  had  extracted  all  the  juice  in  behalf  of  a  brave 
soldier  just  returned  from  Algiers;  "  for  great  ills  heroic 
remedies." 

"Valerie,  where  are  you  going?"  cried  Marneffe, 
stopping  his  wife  on  her  way  to  the  door. 

"  To  see  the  landlord,"  she  answered,  arranging  her 
curls  at  a  glass.  "As  for  3'ou,  w^li}"  don't  3'ou  try  to  cap- 
tivate the  old  maid,  if  she  is  really  3'our  chief's  cousin?" 

The  ignorance  of  the  various  lodgers  in  the  same 
house  about  each  other  is  one  of  those  perennial  facts 
which  show  almost  better  than  any  other  the  hurly- 
burly  of  Parisian  life.  It  is,  however,  quite  eas}'  to 
understtind  how  a  clerk  going  earl}'  to  his  office,  re- 
turning only  for  his  dinner  and  spending  his  evenings 
elsewhere,  and  a  wife  devoted  to  the  amusements  of 
Paris,  should  know  little  or  nothing  of  the  life  of  an 
old  maid  lodging  on  the  third  floor  of  the  rear  build- 
ing across  the  court,  especiall}''  when  the  latter  had  the 
regular  habits  of  Mademoiselle  Fischer. 

Lisbeth,  being  the  earliest  riser  in  the  house,  fetched 
her  milk,  bread,  and  charcoal  witliout  exchanging  a 
word  with  an}^  one  ;  she  went  to  bed  with  the  sun ;  she 
received  neither  visits  nor  letters,  and  had  no  acquaint- 
ances in  the  neighborhood.     Hers  was  one  of  those 


Cousin   Bette.  77 

nameless,  entomological  existences  such  as  turn  up 
from  time  to  time  in  certain  houses,  where  at  the  end 
of  three  or  four  3'ears  3'ou  find  that  an  old  gentleman 
is  living  on  the  fourth  floor  who  knew  Voltaire,  Pilas- 
tre  du  Rosier,  Beaujon,  Marcel,  Mole,  Sophie  Arnould, 
Franklin,  and  Robespierre.  The  gossip  that  Madame 
Marneffe  repeated  of  Lisbeth  Fischer  she  had  chanced 
to  hear  solel3'  by  reason  of  the  isolation  of  the  neighbor- 
hood and  the  intimac}'  which  their  povert}'  established 
between  themselves  and  the  porter  of  the  house,  whose 
good-will  was  too  necessary  to  them  not  to  be  carefully 
kept  up.  Now  the  pride  and  mute  reserve  of  the  old 
maid  had  given  rise,  on  the  part  of  the  porter  and  his 
wife,  to  the  exaggerated  respect  and  cold  civilit}"  which 
always  denote  a  spirit  of  discontent  in  our  subordi- 
nates. Porters  are,  moreover,  apt  to  think  themselves 
in  the  premises,  as  they  sa}^  in  the  courts,  on  equal 
terms  with  a  lodger  who  pa3's  a  rent  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  francs.  The  tale  told  by  Bette  to  her  little 
cousin  Hortense  being  true,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  the 
porter's  wife  when  gossiping  with  the  Marneflfes  should 
calumniate  Mademoiselle  Fischer  by  merelj'  relating  it. 

When  Bette  took  her  candlestick  from  the  worthy 
Madame  Olivier,  the  said  porter's  wife,  she  stepped  for- 
ward to  see  if  the  window  of  the  attic  above  her  own 
room  was  lighted  up.  At  this  hour  in  the  month  of 
Jul}'  the  rooms  on  the  courtj'ard  were  so  dark  that  the 
old  maid  was  unable  to  go  to  bed  without  a  candle. 

"  Don't  be  uneas}- ;  Monsieur  8teinb*ock  is  at  home  ; 
he  has  n't  even  left  the  house,"  said  the  woman,  jocosel}', 
to  Mademoiselle  Fischer. 

Bette  made  no  reply.    She  retained  her  peasant  habits 


78  Cousin  Bette. 

so  far  as  to  scorn  the  gossip  of  persons  out  of  her  own 
range  of  intercourse  ;  hke  peasants,  who  know  nothing 
bej^ond  the  boundaries  of  their  own  village,  she  cared 
only  for  the  opinion  of  the  little  social  circle  in  which 
she  revolved.  Consequents  she  went  boldly  up,  not 
to  her  own  rooms,  but  to  the  attic,  —  for  the  following 
reason  :  when  the  dessert  was  served  at  the  Hulots'  she 
had  put  a  quantity  of  fruits  and  sweetmeats  into  her 
bag,  intending,  as  usual,  to  give  them  to  her  lover,  pre- 
cisely as  an  old  maid  gives  a  tidbit  to  a  dog. 

She  found  the  hero  of  her  cousin's  imagination  work- 
ing b}'  the  gleam  of  a  little  lamp,  the  light  of  which 
was  increased  by  falling  through  a  glass  globe  filled 
with  water,  —  a  pale,  fair  3'oung  man,  sitting  at  a  sort 
of  workman's-bench  covered  with  carving  and  model- 
ling tools,  red  wax,  rough-hewn  pedestals  and  castings 
in  brass ;  dressed  in  a  blouse  and  holding  in  his  hand 
a  little  group  done  in  modelling  wax,  at  which  he  was 
gazing  with  the  absorption  of  a  poet  in  travail. 

"  Here,  Wenceslas,  see  what  I  have  brought  you," 
she  said,  putting  her  handkerchief  on  the  corner  of  the 
bench. 

Then  she  took  the  fruits  and  sweetmeats  carefully 
from  her  bag. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  poor 
exile,  in  a  melancholy  voice. 

*'  They  '11  do  you  good,  my  poor  boy.  You  heat  your 
blood  working  as  you  do ;  you  never  were  born  for  such 
a  trade." 

Wenceslas  Steinbock  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

*'Come,  eat,"  she  said  roughly,  "instead  of  gazing 
at  me  as  if  I  were  one  of  your  figures  that  please  you." 


Cousin  Bette.  79 

The  surprise  of  the  young  man  came  to  an  end  on 
receiving  this  cuff,  as  it  were,  of  words.  He  recog- 
nized his  female  mentor  whose  tenderness  alwaj's  sur- 
prised liim,  so  harshh'  was  she  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
to  him.  Though  Steinbock  was  twenty-nine  years  old, 
he  seemed,  like  blondes  of  a  certain  type,  to  be  fivp 
or  six  years  3'ounger ;  and  this  appearance  of  3'outh, 
whose  freshness  had  faded  under  the  toil  and  penury 
of  exile,  contrasting  with  the  hard,  stern  face  of  his 
companion,  might  have  led  an  observer  (o  fanc}'  that 
Nature  had  been  mistaken  when  she  bestowed  their 
sexes.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and  threw  himself  upon 
an  old  Louis  XV.  sofa  covered  in  3'ellow  Utrecht  velvet, 
seeming  to  wish  for  rest.  The  old  maid  took  a  Reine- 
Claude  plum  and  gentW  offered  it  to  him. 

*'  Thank  you,"  he  said,  taking  the  fruit. 

*'  Are  3'ou  tired?"  she  asked,  giving  him  another. 

"  Not  tired  with  work,  but  tired  of  life,"  he  answered. 

*'  What  an  idea !  "  she  exclaimed  sharpl3\  "Have n't 
you  a  guardian  angel  watching  over  you?"  she  added, 
as  she  gave  him  the  sweetmeats  and  watched  while  he 
ate  them.    "  You  see  I  thought  of  3'ou  this  evening." 

"I  know,"  he  replied,  with  a  look  that  was  half- 
caressing,  half-plaintive,  "  that  without  you  I  should 
never  have  lived  to  this  da3' ;  but,  m3'  dear  mademoi- 
selle, artists  need  some  excitement  of  mind  —  " 

"  Ah,  there  we  have  it !  "  she  cried,  interrupting  him 
as  she  put  her  hands  on  her  hips  and  fixed  her  flashing 
eyes  on  his  face.  "  You  want  to  go  and  lose  your 
health  in  wicked  places,  like  so  many  other  workmen 
who  end  by  dying  in  a  hospital !  No,  no ;  make  your 
fortune  first,  and  when  3^011   have  plent3'  of  mone3'  in 


80  Cousin  Bette. 

the  Funds  3'ou  can  amuse  yourself,  my  lad  !  Then 
you  will  have  the  wherewithal  to  pay  for  doctors  and 
pleasure  both,  3'ou  j'oung  libertine  !  " 

On  receiving  this  broadside,  accompanied  with  a 
glance  which  sent  a  magnetic  fluid  through  his  being, 
"VJ^enceslas  Steinbock  bowed  his  head.  If  the  most 
confirmed  and  venomous  tattler  had  seen  this  open- 
ing of  their  interview  he  would  have  owned  the  falsity 
of  the  scandal  told  b}'  the  Oliviers  to  the  Marneffes 
apropos  of  Mademoiselle  Fischer.  Everything  in  the 
personal  relation  of  the  pair,  their  tones,  gestures,  and 
glances,  proved  the  purit}-  of  their  intercourse.  The 
old  maid  displayed  the  tenderness  of  a  rough  but  real 
motherhood.  The  young  man  submitted,  like  a  respect- 
ful son,  to  maternal  tj'rann}-.  This  odd  alliance  seemed 
the  result  of  a  powerful  will  acting  incessantly  on  a 
weak  nature,  on  that  peculiar  Slav  indifference  which, 
w^iile  it  bestows  heroic  courage  on  a  battle-field,  gives 
the  race  a  strange  fitfulness  of  conduct,  a  moral  incon- 
sistency and  laxit}^,  the  causes  of  which  should  be 
studied  by  physiologists,  who  are  to  the  science  of  pol- 
itics what  entomologists  are  to  agriculture. 

"What  if  I  die  before  I  am  rich?"  asked  Wenceslas, 
sadly. 

"Die!"  cried  the  spinster;  "oh,  I  sha'n't  let  you 
die.  I  have  life  enough  for  two  ;  I  '11  infuse  some  of 
m}'  blood  into  you,  if  necessar}'." 

As  he  heard  her  vehement  and  impulsive  exclamation 
the  tears  came  into  Stcinbock's  e3'es. 

"  Don't  be  sad,  my  little  Wenceslas,"  said  Lisbeth, 
much  moved.  "Let  me  tell  yow.  something,  —  my 
cousin  Hortense  thought  j'our  seal  very  pretty.     You  '11 


Cousin  Bette.  81 

see,  I  '11  help  30U  to  sell  that  bronze  group  of  j'ours,  and 
you  can  pay  me  and  do  as  you  like  and  be  a  free  man ! 
Come,  laugh !  " 

"I  can  never  repay  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  the 
poor  fellow. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  Vosges  peasant- woman, 
taking  her  protege's  part  against  herself. 

"  Because  you  have  not  only  fed  and  lodged  and 
saved  me  from  miser}',  but  3'ou  have  given  me  life  ;  3'ou 
have  created  me  such  as  I  am ;  you  have  often  been 
harsh,  you  have  made  me  suffer  —  " 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  the  old  maid.  "  Now,  don't  begin 
3'our  nonsense  about  poetry  and  art,  and  don't  crack 
your  fingers  and  stretch  3'our  arms,  declaiming  about 
the  ideal  and  all  your  Northern  stuff.  The  ideal  can't 
hold  a  candle  to  the  real,  and  the  real  is  —  I !  You 
think  3'ou  have  ideas  in  3'our  brain?  well,  what  good 
are  the3'?  I,  too,  have  ideas.  What's  the  good  of 
having  things  in  your  soul  or  3'our  brain  if  3'ou  can't 
make  an 3'  use  of  them?  People  who  have  ideas  never 
get  on  in  this  world  as  well  as  those  who  have  none, 
provided  they  bestir  themselves.  Instead  of  thinking 
about  your  fancies  3-0U  ought  to  work.  What  have 
3'Ou  done  since  I  went  out?" 

"  What  did  3'our  prett}'  cousin  say?  " 

"  Who  told  you  she  was  pretty?"  demanded  Bette, 
in  a  tone  irate  with  tigerish  jealous3'. 

"  Why,  you  did." 

"  Yes,  just  to  see  how  you  would  take  it!  So  you 
want  to  be  running  after  petticoats,  do  3'ou?  If  you 
are  fond  of  women,  go  and  make  them  out  of  brass, 
for  3'ou  can't  have  any  other  loves  for  some  time  to 

6 


82  Cousin   Bette. 

come  —  speciall}^  not  my  cousin,  mj^  3'oung  friend  !  she 
is  not  game  for  3'our  gun.  Such  a  girl  as  that  must 
have  a  man  with  sixty  thousand  francs  a  year  —  in 
fact,  the}^  have  got  him  —  Goodness  !  there  's  your  bed 
not  made  !  "  slie  exclaimed,  looking  through  the  door 
of  the  adjoining  room  ;  "  poor  fellow  !  how  I  have  neg- 
lected you  !  " 

And  the  vigorous  creature  pulled  off  her  mantle,  bon- 
net, and  gloves,  and  set  to  work  like  a  servant  to  make 
the  humble  little  bed  of  the  artist.  Tiiis  mixture  of 
rough,  even  rude  treatment  with  flashes  of  kindness 
may  explain  the  empire  which  Lisbeth  wielded  over  a 
man  whom  she  held  to  be  a  thing  of  her  own.  Does 
not  life  control  us  by  its  alternations  of  good  and  evil  ? 
If  AYenceslas  had  encountered  Madame  Marneffe  in- 
stead of  Lisbeth  Fischer,  he  would  have  found  an  in- 
dulgent and  complj'ing  protectress,  who  would  have  led 
him  into  mir}^  and  dishonorable  waj^s,  where  he  would 
soon  have  lost  himself  Assuredlj"  he  would  never  have 
worked,  and  the  artist  soul  within  him  would  never 
have  burst  forth.  Therefore,  while  he  fretted  against 
the  harsh  exactions  of  the  old  maid,  his  reason  told  him 
to  prefer  the  iron  arm  that  held  him  in  a  vise  to  the 
idle  and  perilous  existence  which  several  of  his  com- 
patriots were  leading. 

Here  follows  an  account  of  the  circumstance  to  which 
was  owing  this  curious  marriage  of  female  energy  and 
masculine  weakness,  — a  species  of  contradiction  which 
is  rather  frequent,  they  sa}',  in  Poland. 


Cousin  Bette.  83 


CHAPTER  YII. 

THE     STORY    OF    A    SPIDER   WITH    TOO    BIG   A    FLY   IN 
HER   NET. 

In  1833  Mademoiselle  Fischer,  who  sometimes  worked 
at  night  when  she  had  a  great  deal  on  hand  to  do,  no- 
ticed, about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  strong  smell 
of  carbonic  acid,  and  heard  what  seemed  to  be  the 
groans  of  a  djing  person.  The  fumes  of  gas  and  the 
sounds  came  from  the  attic  above  the  two  rooms  in 
which  she  lodged,  and  she  concluded  that  a  3'oung  man 
who  had  lately  hired  the  garret,  which  had  been  un- 
occupied for  the  last  three  3'ears,  was  committing  sui- 
cide. She  ran  up  quickl}',  burst  in  the  door  b}'  her 
Lorraine  strength  applied  as  a  ram,  and  found  the 
lodger  rolling  on  his  flock-bed  in  the  agonies  of  death. 
She  extinguished  the  brazier,  the  air  rushed  in  from  the 
open  door,  and  the  man's  life  was  saved ;  then,  when 
Lisbeth  had  put  him  to  bed  like  a  patient,  and  he  had 
fallen  naturall}^  to  sleep,  she  discovered  the  cause  of 
his  would-be  suicide  in  the  absolute  nakedness  of  the 
two  garret  rooms,  where  there  was  literally  nothing  but  , 
a  wretched  table,  a  flock-bed,  and  two  chairs. 

On  the  table  lay  a  paper  with  the  following  writing, 
which  she  read  :  — 


84  Cousin  Bette. 

I  am  Comte  Wenceslas  Steinbock,  boni  at  Prelie  in 
Livonia. 

No  one  is  to  blame  for  my  death ;  the  reasons  for  my 
suicide  are  in  the  words  of  Kosciusko,  Finis  Polonice. 

The  great-nephew  of  Charles  the  Twelfth's  brave  general 
cannot  beg  his  bread.  My  feeble  health  forbade  my  entering 
the  army,  and  I  came  yesterday  to  the  last  of  the  hundred 
dollars  which  I  brought  from  Dresden.  I  leave  twenty-five 
francs  in  the  drawer  of  this  table  to  pay  the  rent  now  due 
to  my  landlord. 

Having  no  relations,  my  death  is  of  interest  to  no  one.  I 
beg  my  fellow-countrymen  not  to  charge  it  to  the  French 
government.  I  have  not  made  myself  known  as  a  refugee; 
I  have  asked  nothing;  I  have  met  no  other  exile;  no  one  in 
Paris  knows  of  my  existence. 

I  die  in  the  Chi-istian  faith.  May  God  forgive  the  last  of 
the  Steinbocks. 

Wenceslas. 

Mademoiselle  Fischer,  deepl}'  touched  by  the  honesty 
of  the  d3'ing  man,  opened  the  drawer  and  saw  the  pile 
of  five-franc  pieces. 

"Poor  3'oung  man!"  she  exclaimed.  "No  one  in 
all  the  world  to  care  for  him  !  " 

She  went  back  to  her  own  room,  fetched  her  work,  and 
returned  to  the  attic  to  watch  beside  the  exile.  His 
astonishment  when  he  waked  at  seeing  a  woman  near 
his  pillow  may  be  imagined ;  he  fancied  he  was  still 
dreaming.  While  she  sat  beside  him  making  shoulder- 
knots  the  old  maid  was  inwardly  pledging  herself  to 
protect  the  3'outh,  whom  she  admired  as  he  lay  there 
sleeping.  When  the  young  count  was  fu\[y  awake  she 
reassured  him,  and  questioned  him  as  to  what  he  could 
do  to  gain  a  livelihood.     Wenceslas,  after  relating  his 


Cousin  Bette,  85 

bistoiy,  added  that  he  owed  his  situation  as  professor 
in  a  college  to  his  acknowledged  vocation  for  art ;  that 
he  had  always  felt  within  him  an  impulse  toward  sculp- 
ture ;  but  the  length  of  time  required  for  such  studies 
seemed  too  great  for  a  penniless  man,  and  he  was 
now  too  feeble  in  health  to  undertake  the  manual  labor 
preparatory  to  the  art.  All  this  was  Greek  to  Lisbeth 
Fischer.  She  answered  that  Paris  was  full  of  oppor- 
tunities, and  that  a  man  willing  to  work  could  alvva3's 
make  a  living ;  courageous  folks,  she  said,  would  never 
perish  if  the}'  had  a  certain  stock  of  patience. 

"  I  am  only  a  poor  girl,  —  a  peasant^  — and  yet  I 
have  managed  to  make  myself  independent,"  she  said 
in  conclusion.  "  Listen  to  me  ;  I  have  laid  b}'  a  little 
monej',  and  if  3'ou  are  really  willing  to  work  I  will  lend 
you,  month  b}'  month,  as  much  as  you  need  to  live 
upon,  —  but  to  live  strictlj^ ;  no  racketing,  no  dissipa- 
tions, mind  3'ou !  You  can  dine  in  Paris  for  twent}^- 
five  sous  a  da}',  and  I  '11  make  your  breakfast  every  day 
when  I  make  my  own.  Moreover,  I  '11  furnish  your 
rooms  and  pay  whatever  it  costs  you  to  learn  a  trade. 
You  can  give  me  a  receipt  in  due  form  for  all  the 
moneys  I  spend  upon  you,  and  when  you  are  rich  you 
will  repay  me.  But  if  you  don't  work  I  shall  consider 
that  the  bargain  is  ofl',  and  I  shall  abandon  you." 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  the  poor  fellow,  still  nnder  the  anguish 
of  his  struog-le  with  death,  "  exiles  of  all  lands  do  well 
to  yearn  for  Paris,  as  the  souls  in  purgatory  long  for 
heaven.  What  a  nation  is  France  !  —  where  succor  and 
generous  souls  are  found  even  in  a  garret  like  this  ! 
You  shall  be  my  all,  my  benefactress,  and  I  will  be  your 
slave.     Be  my  friend,"  he  continued,  with  one  of  these 


86  Cousin  Bette. 

] 

/caressing  gestures  common  among  Poles,  wliicli,  rather 
'  unjustly,  la}'  them  open  to  the  charge  of  servility-. 

"  I  'm  too  jealous  ;  I  should  make  you  A^ery  unhapp}- ; 
but  I  '11  willingly  be  a  sort  of  comrade  to  you,"  an- 
swered Lisbeth. 

^ '  Oh  !  if  you  onl}'  knew  with  what  passion  I  praj-ed 
for  some  being,  were  it  even  a  tyrant,  with  whom  to 
have  some  intercourse,  when  I  was  struggling  alone 
in  the  void  of  this  great  cit}',"  said  Wenceslas.  ' '  I 
even  longed  for  Siberia,  to  which  the  Emperor  would 
send  me  if  I  returned  to  my  own  country  !  Yes,  be  my 
Providence !  I  will  work,  I  will  be  a  better  man  than 
ever  before,  —  though  I  never  was  a  bad  one." 

''  Will  you  do  all  that  I  tell  you  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Well  then,  I  adopt  3'ou,"  she  cried,  gayty.  "Be- 
hold me  with  a  son  just  risen  from  his  coffin.  We  will 
begin  at  once ;  I  shall  go  and  make  my  preparations. 
Y^'ou  are  to  dress  yourself,  and  come  down  and  share 
my  breakfast  when  I  knock  on  the  ceiling  with  the 
handle  of  my  broom." 

The  next  da}"  Mademoiselle  Fischer  questioned  all 
the  manufacturers  to  whom  she  carried  her  work  as  to 
the  business  of  sculpture.  B}'  dint  of  asking,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  discovering  the  establishment  of  Florent  and 
Chanor,  where  fine  bronzes  and  elegant  silver  services 
are  cast  and  engraved.  She  took  Steinbock  to  the  place 
and  introduced  him  as  a  sculptor's  apprentice,  a  term 
which  seemed  to  him  sufficiently  odd.  It  appeared  thnt 
the  firm  executed  designs  of  the  best  artists,  but  allowed 
none  to  be  copied.  However,  the  obstinate  persistencj^ 
of  the  old  maid  succeeded  in  getting  \\qv  protege  a  place 


Cousin   Bette.  87 

as  designer  of  decorations.  Steinbock  rapidly  acquired 
the  faculty  and  modelled  new  forms,  a  work  for  which 
he  showed  a  vocation.  Five  months  after  serving  out 
his  apprenticeship  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
famous  Stidmann,  chief  sculptor  of  the  Florent  estab- 
lishment, who  agreed  to  give  him  lessons.  At  the  end 
of  two  years  Wenceslas  knew  more  of  the  business  than 
his  master ;  but  before  the  close  of  another  half-year 
the  old  maid's  savings,  slowly  amassed  little  by  little 
during  sixteen  years,  were  all  spent.  Two  thousand  five 
hundred  francs  in  gold,  a  sum  she  had  meant  to  invest 
in  an  annuit}',  were  now  represented  bj- what?  —  the 
note  of  hand  of  a  Pole  !  It  thus  happened  that  Lisbeth, 
at  the  time  our  story  begins,  was  again  toiling  as  she  did 
in  her  youth  to  meet  the  costs  of  supporting  her  exile. 
When  at  last  she  realized  that  she  had  nothing  in  hand 
but  a  bit  of  paper  instead  of  her  gold,  she  lost  her  self- 
sufRciencT,  and  went  off  to  consult  Monsieur  Rivet,  who 
for  the  last  fifteen  3'ears  had  been  the  adviser  and  friend 
of  his  first  and  most  capable  workwoman.  On  learning 
of  the  affair.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Rivet  scolded  Lis- 
beth, declared  her  crazy,  anathematized  all  exiles  whose 
plots  and  conspiracies  to  recover  nationality  threatened 
the  prosperity  of  commerce  and  the  preservation  of 
peace  at  any  price,  and  the}^  urged  the  old  maid  to 
obtain  what  is  called  in  business  securitj'. 

"  The  only  security  3'ou  can  get  from  that  fellow 
is  his  libert}',"  said  Monsieur  Rivet  (Monsieur  Achille 
Rivet  was  a  judge  in  one  of  the  commercial  courts)  ; 
"and  that's  no  joke  for  a  foreigner.  A  Frenchman 
stays  five  years  in  a  debtor's  prison,  and  then  he  gets 
out,  — without  paying  his  debts,  it  is  true,  for  nothing 


88  Cousin   Bette. 

compels  him  but  his  conscience,  which  is  sure  not  to 
trouble  him  ;  but  a  foreigner  never  gets  out  of  prison. 
Give  me  that  note  of  hand  ;  endorse  it  over  to  my  book- 
keeper ;  he  will  get  it  protested,  and  sue  you  both.  He 
will  then  get  a  warrant  for  your  arrest  for  debt,  and 
when  these  formalities  are  all  complied  with  he  will  give 
you  a  secret  release.  By  taking  this  course  your  in- 
terests combine,  and  you  hold  a  loaded  pistol  to  your 
Pole's  head." 

The  old  maid  followed  this  advice,  and  told  her  pro- 
tege to  feel  no  uneasiness  about  the  legal  process,  as 
it  was  taken  solely  to  give  security  to  a  mone3'-lender 
who  agreed  to  lend  them  a  certain  sum.  This  ingenious 
evasion  was  due  to  the  inventive  genius  of  the  com- 
mercial judge.  The  guileless  artist,  confiding  blindly  in 
his  benefactress,  lit  his  pipe  with  the  stamped  papers  ; 
for  he  smoked,  like  all  men  who  have  griefs  or  energies 
to  lull.  One  fine  day  Monsieur  Eivet  showed  Mademoi- 
selle Fischer  a  document,  remarking  :  — 

"  Wenceslas  Steinbock  is  in  your  power,  bound  hand 
and  foot  so  securely  that  3'ou  can  put  him  in  Chchy  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  whenever  j^ou  please." 

That  upright  judge  in  the  courts  of  commerce  felt  the 
inward  satisfaction  which  must  surely  result  from  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  an  evil  good  deed.  Benefi- 
cence has  so  many  ways  of  proceeding  in  Paris  that  this 
strange  remark  is  to  be  taken  as  expressing  one  of  its 
various  actions.  The  Pole  once  caught  in  the  meshes 
of  commercial  law,  the  next  thing  was  to  come  down 
on  him  for  payment ;  for  the  sensible  Rivet  considered 
the  man  a  swindler.  Honor,  heart,  and  poetry  were, 
according  to  him,  the  cloak  of  dishonesty  in  business. 


Cousin  Bette.  89 

Rivet  went,  in  tlie  interests,  lie  said,  of  that  poor  Made- 
moiselle Fischer  who  had  been  fooled  b}'  a  Pole,  to 
the  wealth}"  manufacturers  by  whom  Steinbock  was  em- 
plo^'ed.  It  so  happened  that  Stidmann  —  who,  together 
with  the  remarkable  artists  in  gold  and  silver  work 
alread}^  named,  had  brought  French  art  to  a  perfection 
which  enabled  it  to  compete  with  the  Florentines  and 
the  renaissance  —  was  in  Chanor's  private  office  when 
the  manufacturer  of  gold  lace  appeared,  to  make  in- 
quiries about  "a  certain  Steinbock,  a  Polish  refugee." 

"Whom  are  you  caUing  'a  certain  Steinbock?'" 
cried  Stidmann,  sarcasticall}'.  "  You  can't  sureh'  mean 
a  3'oung  Livonian  who  has  been  a  pupil  of  mine  ?  Let 
me  tell  you,  sir,  that  he  is  a  great  artist.  People  say 
I  think  myself  a  devil  in  art.  Well,  that  poor  fellow, 
though  he  does  n't  yet  know  his  power,  is  a  god  of  it." 

"Ha!  though  yow  speak  rather  cavalierl}^  to  a  man 
who  has  the  honor  to  be  a  judge  of  the  commercial 
courts  —  " 

"  Your  servant,  consul,"  retorted  Stidmann,  bringing 
his  hand  to  his  forehead  in  military  salute. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  what  30U  S2iy.  So  you  think 
that  young  man  can  earn  money?" 

"  Of  course  he  can,"  said  old  Chanor ;  "  but  he  must 
work.  He  could  have  earned  a  good  deal  by  this  time 
if  he  had  sta^^ed  with  us.  But  the  trouble  is,  artists 
have  a  horror  of  control." 

"  The}^  have  a  true  sense  of  their  own  dignit}'  and 
value,"  said  Stidmann.  "  I  don't  blame  Wenceslas  for 
working  alone  and  trying  to  make  himself  a  name  and 
a  great  career,  —  the}'  are  his  due  ;  but  it  was  a  serious 
loss  to  me  when  he  left  me." 


90  Cousin  Bette. 

"Well,  well!"  cried  Rivet;  "such  are  the  preten- 
sions of  3'oung  men  just  out  of  their  college  shell.  But 
you  had  better  begin  by  earning  monej',  and  look  after 
glory  later." 

"  It  spoils  the  fingers  to  be  picking  up  five-franc 
pieces,"  retorted  Stidmann.  "  Fame  will  bring  us 
mone}^" 

"There's  no  help  for  it,"  said  Chauor  to  Rivet; 
"  the}^  won't  be  tied." 

"  They  break  the  halter  if  thej^  are,"  cried  Stidmann. 

"  These  gentlemen,"  said  Chanor,  looking  at  Stid- 
mann, "are  as  full  of  fancies  as  the}'  are  of  talent. 
They  are  lavishly  extravagant  ;  thej^  run  after  mis- 
tresses ;  they  fling  their  money  about ;  they  have  no 
time  to  work ;  thej^  neglect  their  orders ;  and  the  con- 
sequence is  that  we  have  to  employ  journe3'men  who 
can't  compare  with  them,  but  who  grow  rich:  then 
they  complain  of  the  hard  times,  —  whereas,  if  they 
applied  themselves  to  work  they  would  have  heaps  of 
money  —  " 

"  You  remind  me,  old  man,"  said  Stidmann,  "  of  that 
publisher,  before  the  Revolution,  who  said  :  '  Ah  !  if  I 
could  onl}'  keep  Montesquieu,  Voltaire,  and  Rousseau 
in  m}'  loft  without  a  pennj^  of  their  own,  and  put  their 
breeches  under  lock  and  ke}'',  they  'd  write  me  famous 
little  books  which  would  make  m}-  fortune.'  Yes,  if 
works  of  art  could  be  cast  like  nails,  3'ou  shopkeepers 
could  make  them.  Give  me  m}'  thousand  francs,  and 
hold  3'our  tongue  !  " 

The  worthy  Rivet  went  home  rejoicing  over  poor 
Mademoiselle  Fischer,  who  dined  at  his  house  every 
Monday,  and  was  there  to  greet  him. 


Cousin  Bette.  91 

"  If  you  can  make  him  work,"  he  said,  "  you  will 
have  been  more  hicky  than  wise,  and  you  will  get 
back  your  money,  capital  and  interest.  That  Pole  has 
genius;  he  can  earn  a  living;  but  lock  up  his  boots 
and  his  trousers ;  don't  let  him  go  to  the  Chaumiere 
jior  anywhere  near  Notre-Dame  de  Lorette ;  hold  a 
tight  hand  over  him.  If  you  don't  take  care  your 
sculptor  will  lounge  away  his  life.  You  know  what 
artists  mean  hy  fldner.  Well,  that's  what  he'll  do, — 
all  sorts  of  horrors,  I  don't  know  what.  I  've  just  seen 
a  thousand-franc  note  go  in  a  day." 

This  episode  had  a  terrible  influence  on  the  domestic 
life  of  Bette  and  Wenceslas.  Henceforth  the  benefac- 
tress steeped  the  bread  of  the  exile  in  the  wormwood 
of  reproaches  whenever  she  thought  her  money  in  dan- 
ger of  disappearing ;  and  she  thought  so  often.  The 
kind  parent  became  a  stepmother  ;  she  scolded  and 
harried  the  unfortunate  son,  blamed  him  for  working 
too  slowly,  and  for  choosing  so  difficult  a  profession  ; 
she  could  not  realize  that  the  models  in  red  wax,  the 
ligurines,  the  bits  of  decorations,  and  trial  designs, 
were  of  the  slightest  value.  Then  again,  sorry  for  her 
sharpness,  she  tried  to  efface  the  recollection  of  it  by 
little  kindnesses  and  attentions.  The  poor  3'oung  fel- 
low, shuddering  from  a  sense  of  his  dependence  on  a 
Megsera,  languishing  under  the  dominion  of  a  peasant 
woman,  was  only  too  delighted  to  get  the  petting  of 
a  motherly  solicitude  won  solely  by  the  physical  and 
material  charm  about  him.  He  was  like  a  woman  who 
forgives  the  ill-usage  of  a  week  in  return  for  the  ca- 
resses of  a  momentary  peace-making.  Mademoiselle 
Fischer  thus  acquired  absolute  sway  over  the  young 


22  Cousin   Bette. 

man's  spirit.  The  love  of  power  latent  in  the  soul 
of  the  old  maid  developed  rapidly.  She  could  satisfy 
her  pride  and  her  need  of  action  ;  for  had  she  not  a 
human  being  of  her  own,  —  one  to  order,  scold,  flatter, 
and  make  happy  without  the  fear  of  rivalry  ?  The  good 
and  the  evil  of  her  character  were  equall}-  brought  out. 
If  she  sometimes  tortured  the  poor  artist,  at  other  times 
she  showed  a  delicacj^  which  had  the  grace  of  a  wild 
flower.  She  delighted  to  see  that  he  wanted  for  noth- 
ing ;  she  would  willingly  have  given  her  life  for  his  ; 
Wenceslas  was  sure  of  it.  At  the  first  word  of  kind- 
ness the  poor  fellow,  like  all  noble  natures,  forgot  the 
defects  and  the  cruelties  of  his  tyrant,  —  who  had,  more- 
over, told  him  the  story  of  her  life  as  an  excuse  for 
her  savage  temper,  —  and  remembered  only  her  bene- 
factions. 

One  da}',  exasperated  that  Wenceslas  had  loitered 
away  his  time  in  the  streets  instead!  of  working,  Bette 
made  him  a  scene. 

"You  belong  to  me!"  she  said.  "If  you  are  an 
honest  man  you  should  tr}^  to  return  what  you  owe  me 
as  soon  as  possible." 

The  young  nobleman,  in  whom  the  blood  of  the  Stein- 
bocks  began  to  rise,  turned  pale. 

"  Good  God  !  "  she  cried,  "  before  long  we  shall  have 
nothing  to  live  upon  but  the  thirty  sous  a  day  which  I 
earn,  — I,  a  poor  woman  !  " 

The  poverty-stricken  pair,  excited  by  the  duel  of 
words,  grew  more  and  more  irritated  with  each  other, 
until  at  last  the  poor  artist  reproached  his  benefactress 
for  the  first  time,  and  asked  her  why  she  had  saved  him 
from  death  only  to  make  him  lead  the  life  of  a  galley- 


Cousin  Bette.  93 

slave,  —  worse,  he  said,  than  annihilation,  where  at  least 
he  could  have  peace ;  and  he  threatened  to  escape. 

"Escape!  run  away!"  she  cried.  "  Ah,  Monsieur 
Rivet  was  right !  " 

And  she  explained,  chapter  and  verse,  how  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  she  could  put  him  in  prison  for 
the  rest  of  his  days.  The  blow  felled  him.  He  sank 
into  a  gloomy  rever}'  and  dead  silence.  The  next  night 
Lisbeth,  suspecting  another  attempt  at  suicide,  went  up 
to  the  garret  and  offered  her  pensioner  the  legal  papers 
and  a  receipt  in  full. 

"  Here,  my  poor  lad,  take  them  and  forgive  me  !  "  she 
said,  with  moistened  e^'es.  "Be  happ3' ;  leave  me.  I 
torment  you  ;  but  say  that  3'ou  will  sometimes  think  of 
the  poor  girl  who  put  you  in  the  way  to  earn  a  living. 
You  3'ourself  are  the  cause  of  all  m}^  evil  tempers  1  I 
could  die  ;  but  if  I  did,  what  would  become  of  you?  It 
is  not  for  myself  that  I  am  so  impatient  for  j'ou  to 
make  things  that  are  fit  to  sell.  I  don't  want  my  money 
for  myself,  you  may  believe  me !  But  I  'm  afraid  of 
j'our  idleness,  which  you  call  re  very.  I  dread  those 
fancies  of  yours,  on  which  you  waste  your  time  gazing 
at  the  sky ;  and  I  do  want  you  to  acquire  the  habit  of 
labor." 

This  was  said  with  tears  and  tone  and  glance  and 
attitude  that  overcame  the  noble  heart  of  the  artist ;  he 
caught  his  benefactress  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her. 

"Keep  those  papers!"  he  cried,  gayly.  "Why 
should  you  put  me  in  Clicliy?  Am  I  not  imprisoned 
here  in  the  bonds  of  gratitude?" 

This  episode  of  their  private  life,  which  took  place 
about  six  months  earlier  than  the  date  of  our  story,  led 


94  Cousin  Bette. 

Wenceslas  to  produce  three  works  of  art :  one  was  the 
seal  which  Hortense  had  kept ;  another,  the  group  in 
the  antiquary's  shop  ;  and  the  third,  an  admirable  clock, 
which  he  was  just  finishing. 

This  clock  represented  the  Hours,,  charming^  em- 
bodied in  twelve  female  figures,  linked  in  a  dance  so 
wild  and  rapid  that  three  Cupids,  starting  from  a  tangle 
of  fruit  and  flowers,  could  onl}'  catch  the  torn  fragment 
of  a  chlamys  left  b}^  the  Hour  of  midnight  in  the  grasp  of 
the  boldest  of  the  Loves.  The  group  rested  on  a  round 
support,  finely  decorated  with  fantastic,  writhing  crea- 
tures. The  timepiece  was  held  in  a  monstrous  mouth, 
opened  by  a  yawn.  Each  Hour  carried  a  symbol,  de- 
lightfully imagined  as  characterizing  her  special  occu- 
pation. 

It  is  now  eas}'  to  explain  the  nature  of  the  extraor- 
dinary attachment  which  Mademoiselle  Fischer  had  con- 
ceived for  her  Pole.  She  wished  him  happy,  but  she 
saw  him  fading  and  perishing  day  by  day  in  his  gar- 
ret. The  secret  springs  of  this  terrible  situation  are 
not  hard  to  understand.  The  Southern  peasant  woman 
watched  this  son  of  the  North  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
mother,  the  jealousy  of  a  woman,  and  the  keenness  of 
a  dragon.  She  managed  to  debar  him  from  ever}^  pos- 
sible dissipation  or  excess  by  depriving  him  of  mone}'. 
Her  intention  was  to  keep  her  victim  and  companion  to 
herself,  virtuous  by  the  force  of  her  own  will ;  and  she 
was  unable  to  understand  the  barbarity  of  this  mad 
desire,  for  she  was  accustomed  in  her  own  person  to 
every  form  of  habitual  privation.  She  loved  Steinbock 
well  enough  not  to  marry  him,  and  too  well  to  yield 
him  to  another  woman  ;  she  could  not  resign  herself  to 


Cousin  Bette.  95 

be  no  more  to  him  than  a  mother,  and  3'et  she  saw  the 
folly  of  even  thinking  of  another  love.  These  contra- 
dictions, her  ferocious  jealous_y,  her  J03'  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  man  of  her  own,  kept  her  in  a  state  of  per- 
petual agitation.  Deeph'  in  love  for  the  last  four  years, 
she  clung  to  the  mad  hope  of  continuing  indefinitely 
this  abortive  and  inconsistent  wa}'  of  life,  though  such 
dogged  persistency  could  onl}'  be  the  ruin  of  the  man 
she  called  her  son.  This  struggle  between  her  instincts 
and  her  common-sense  made  her  unjust  and  tyrannical. 
She  revenged  herself  on  the  3'oung  man  for  her  lack  of 
youth  and  beauty  and  wealth ;  and  then,  after  each  ex- 
hibition of  vengeance,  she  admitted  in  her  heart  that 
she  was  to  blame,  and  humbled  herself  with  infinite  ten- 
derness to  his  service.  But  such  sacrifices  to  her  idol 
never  entered  her  mind  until  after  she  had  written  her 
power  upon  him  as  with  a  knife.  It  was  Shakspeare's 
Tempest  reversed, — Caliban  master  of  Ariel  and  of 
Prospero.  As  to  the  unhappy  youth  of  noble  thought, 
meditative  nature,  and  a  disposition  to  laziness,  he 
showed  in  his  e^^es,  like  the  caged  lions  in  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes,  the  arid  desert  which  his  protectress  was 
making  of  his  soul.  The  hard  labor  she  exacted  of  him 
could  not  fill  the  needs  of  his  being.  His  weariness  of 
spirit  l)ecame  a  physical  malady ;  he  was  dying  of  it, 
without  being  able  to  obtain  the  means  or  the  opportu- 
nity for  the  pleasure  and  the  distraction  that  he  needed. 
On  certain  days  of  vigorous  impulse,  when  a  more  than 
usual  sense  of  his  misery  increased  his  exasperation,  he 
looked  at  Bette  as  a  thirsty  traveller  crossing  the  desert 
looks  at  a  pool  of  brackish  water.  These  Dead  Sea 
fruits  of  poverty  and  isolation  in  the  midst  of  the  great 


96  Cousm  Bette. 

city  were  sweet  to  the  taste  of  Lisbeth  Fischer.  She 
foresaw  with  terror  that  the  first  approach  of  passion 
would  deprive  her  of  her  slave.  Sometimes,  when  she 
saw  that  she  had  given  him  the  means  to  do  witliout 
her,  she  regretted  that  her  tj-ranny  and  her  reproaches 
had  driven  the  poet  to  become  a  great  sculptor  of  little 
things. 

The  day  after  this  opening  of  our  story,  the  three 
households  we  have  now  described,  all  so  diverse^  and 
3'et  so  truly  wretched,  — that  of  the  mother  in  her  de- 
spair, that  of  the  Marneffes,  and  that  of  the  hapless 
exile, — were  each  to  be  affected  by  an  artless  passion 
on  the  part  of  Hortense,  and  b}'  the  strange  termination 
which  the  baron  was  about  to  give  to  his  unfortunate 
love  for  Josepha. 


Cousin  Bette.  97 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

ROMANCE  OF  THE  FATHER  AND  THAT  OF  THE  DAUGHTER. 

As  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy  approached  the  Opera-house 
he  was  struck  by  the  gloomy  aspect  of  the  temple  of 
the  rue  Lepelletier,  where  neither  gendarmes  nor  lights 
nor  attendants  nor  the  usual  queue  of  people  were  to 
be  seen.  He  looked  at  the  posters  and  there  beheld  a 
white  strip  on  which  appeared  the  sacramental  words, 
"  No  performance,  on  account  of  indisposition." 

He  rushed  at  once  to  Josepba,  who  lived,  like  all 
other  opera-singers,  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  rue 
Cauchat. 

"Monsieur!  wh}'' are  3'ou  here?"  asked  the  porter, 
to  the  baron's  great  astonishment. 

"Don't  3^ou  know  me?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  it  is  precisel}^  because  I  do  know  monsieur 
that  I  ask  why  he  is  here." 

A  deathly  shudder  seized  the  baron. 

"  What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

"  If  Monsieur  le  baron  goes  up  to  Mademoiselle 
Mirah's  apartment  he  will  find  no  one  but  Mademoiselle 
Heloise  Brisetout,  Monsieur  Bixiou,  Monsieur  Leon  de 
Lora,  Monsieur  Lousteau,  Monsieur  de  Vernisset,  Mon- 
sieur Stidmann,  and  a  lot  of  women  smelling  of  patch- 
ouli, who  are  making  a  night  of  it." 

"  Yes,  but  where  is  —  " 

7 


98  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Mademoiselle  Mirah?  —  I  don't  know  that  I  ought 
to  tell  3^011." 

The  baron  slipped  ten  francs  into  the  man's  hand. 

"  Well,  she  has  gone  to  live  in  the  rue  de  la  Ville- 
I'Eveque,  in  a  house  given  to  her,  so  the}^  sa}",  by  the 
Due  d'Herouville,"  whispered  the  porter. 

After  asking  the  number  of  the  house  the  baron  took 
a  milord  and, drove  to  one  of  those  prett}'  modern  resi- 
dences with  double  doors,  where,  from  the  very  gas- 
lamp  on  the  threshold,  luxury  predominated. 

The  baron,  dressed  in  his  usual  blue  cloth,  with  white 
cravat  and  waistcoat,  nankeen  trousers,  varnished  boots, 
and  plent}^  of  starch  in  his  shirt- frill,  seemed  to  the  eyes 
of  the  porter  of  this  second  Eden  a  tardy  guest.  His 
imposing  step  and  bearing  justified  that  opinion. 

When  the  porter  rang  the  bell  a  footman  appeared  on 
the  portico  of  the  house.  The  latter,  new  to  the  place 
like  the  porter  himself,  allowed  the  baron  to  enter,  and 
received  the  card  which  the  latter  gave  him  saying, 
with  imperious  tone  and  gesture, 

"  Take  that  card  to  Mademoiselle  Josepha." 

The  victim  looked  mechanically  round  the  salon  in 
which  he  found  himself,  —  a  reception-room  filled  with 
rare  plants,  the  furniture  of  which  must  have  cost  many 
thousand  francs.  The  footman,  re-entering,  begged 
Monsieur  le  baron  to  come  into  the  drawing-room  and 
wait  until  the  company  left  the  dinner-table. 

The  baron  was  well  accustomed  to  the  luxury  of  the 
empire,  which  was  certainl}^  amazing,  —  for  though  its 
fashions  and  productions  were  not  likely  to  last  they 
were  none  the  less  madlj'  expensive,  — yet  even  he  w^as 
dazzled  and  dumbfounded  when  he  entered  the  salon, 


Coif  8171   Bette.  99 

whose  three  windows  opened  on  a  faiiy-like  garden, 
one  of  those  gardens  made  m  a  month  with  artificial 
soil  and  transplanted  flowers,  whose  grass-plats  seem 
the  result  of  some  chemical  process.  He  not  only  ad- 
mired the  choice  elegance  of  the  decorations,  of  the 
carvings  done  in  the  most  costl}'  fashion  of  the  style 
called  Pompadour,  the  gildings,  and  the  marvellous 
fabrics,  which,  after  all,  the  first  grocer  who  had  made 
his  fortune  could  order  and  obtain  with  mone}',  but  he 
appreciated  still  more  the  treasures  of  art  which  princes 
alone  have  the  faculty  to  find,  to  choose,  to  purchase, 
and  bestow  :  two  pictwes  by  Greuze,  two  of  Watteau, 
two  heads  b}'  Van  Dyke,  two  landscapes  by  Ruysdael, 
two  by  Guaspre,  a  Rembrandt,  a  Holbein,  a  Murillo 
and  a  Titian,  two  Teniers,  a  Metzu,  a  Van  Huj'sum, 
and  an  Abraham  Mignon,  —  in  short,  a  collection  of 
paintings  worth  two  hundred  thousand  francs,  all  ad- 
mirably framed.  The  settings  were  almost  as  costl}^  as 
the  pictures. 

"Ah!  you  understand  it  now,  old  fellow!"  said 
Joseph  a. 

Coming  in  on  tiptoe  through  a  noiseless  door  and 
across  a  thick  Persian  rug,  she  caught  her  lover  in  that 
state  of  blank  stupefaction  when  the  ears  pulsate  and 
ring,  and  nought  is  heard  but  the  knell  of  disaster. 

The  words  '•  old  fellow,"  addressed  to  a  man  of  such 
importance  in  the  government,  and  well  suited  to  show 
the  audacit}^  with  which  such  creatures  flout  the  high- 
est authority,  nailed  the  baron  to  the  spot.  Josepha, 
arraj'ed  in  white  and  yellow,  was  so  bejewelled  for  the 
fete  that  she  shone  amid  the  surrounding  luxury  like 
the  rarest  gem  of  all. 


100  Cousin  Bette. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  she  continued.  "The  duke 
has  spent  all  his  dividends  from  a  certain  joint  stock 
company  upon  this  room.  He  's  no  fool,  m}^  little  duke  ! 
It  is  only  the  lords  of  the  olden  time  who  know  how  to 
turn  coal  into  gold.  Before  dinner  his  notar}-  brought 
me  the  deed  of  the  house  and  a  receipt  for  the  purchase- 
money.  A  lot  of  distinguished  men  are  in  there,  — 
d'Esgrignon,  Rastignac,  Maxime,  Lenoncourt,  Yerneuil, 
Laginski,  Rochefide,  La  Palferine  ;  and  as  for  bankers, 
there  's  Nucingen  and  du  Tillet,  wath  Antonia,  Malaga, 
Carabine,  and  la  Schontz.  They  all  pity  j^our  ill-luck. 
Yes,  m}^  old  man,  you  are  invited  to  join  them,  but  on 
condition  that  3'ou  immediately  drink  down  the  total 
of  two  bottles  of  champagne,  sherry,  and  Hungarian 
wine  so  as  to  get  up  to  their  level  at  once.  We  are 
all  so  tight  that  there  could  n't  be  any  performance 
at  the  opera.  M}^  director  is  in  there,  as  drunk  as  a 
fiddler  —  " 

"  Oh,  Josepha  !  "  cried  the  baron. 

"Come,  don't  let  ^s  have  a  stupid  explanation,"  she 
cried,  laughing.  "  Are  3"ou  worth  the  six  hundred 
thousand  francs  of  this  house  and  furniture?  Can 
you  give  me  a  share  in  the  Funds  which  brings  in 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  such  as  the  duke  gave 
me  this  morning  in  a  bag  of  sugar-plums?  —  pretty 
idea,  was  n't  it?" 

"  What  depravit}^ !  "  said  the  statesman,  who  at  that 
moment  would  gladly  have  given  his  wife's  diamonds  to 
oust  the  Due  d'Herouville  for  twenty-four  hours. 

"It's  m}"  nature,"  she  replied.  "So  this  is  how 
you  are  going  to  take  it?  Whj'  don't  you  get  up  stock 
companies?     Good  gracious!  30U  ought  to  thank  mo. 


Ooiisih'  Becte:  lO-l 

my  poor  old  dyed  cat ;  I  leave  you  just  in  time  to  pre- 
vent you  from  squandering  your  whole  property,  your 
daughter's  dot^  and  —  ah,  what?  you're  crying!  The 
empire  is  over !     I  bow  to  the  new  reign." 

She  struck  an  attitude,  declaiming,  ''  '  They  call  you 
Hulot,  but  I  know  you  not,'  "  and  left  the  room. 

As  the  door  opened  to  let  her  pass,  a  blaze  of  light 
flashed  out  with  the  culminating  noises  of  the  orgy  and 
the  odors  of  a  regal  feast. 

The  Jewess  looked  back  from  the  doorway  and  seeing 
Hulot  rooted  to  the  spot  as  if  he  were  made  of  stone, 
she  returned  into  the  room  and  said  :  — 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  made  over  the  rubbish  in  the  rue 
Cauchat  to  that  little  Heloise  Brisetout  and  her  Bixiou. 
If  3'ou  want  3'our  night-cap,  your  corsets,  3'our  bootjack, 
and  the  wax  for  3'our  moustache,  send  to  Heloise  ;  I 
stipulated  that  you  were  to  haA'e  them." 

This  odious  taunt  sent  the  baron  from  the  room,  like 
Lot  from  Gomorrah,  without  looking  round  like  the 
wife.  He  went  home  rapidl}',  talking  to  himself  as 
though  he  were  craz}^  and  found  the  family  just  as  he 
had  left  them,  calmly  playing  whist.  When  Adeline 
saw  her  husband  she  was  certain  some  horrible  disas- 
ter had  happened,  —  possibh'  something  dishonorable. 
Giving  her  cards  to  Hortense  she  led  Hector  into  the 
same  little  salon  where,  a  few  hours  earlier,  Crevel  had 
predicted  the  shameful  results  of  their  poverty. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  Adeline,  forgive  me!  Let  me  tell  you  the 
infamous  thing !  "  —  and  for  ten  minutes  he  gave  loose 
to  his  anger. 

"  But,  my  friend,"  said  the  poor  woman,  heroically, 


lO-^  '    Ooksin  Bette. 

"such  women  know  nothing  of  love, — of  the  pure, 
devoted  love  which  you  deserve.  How  can  30U  —  3'ou 
who  are  so  clear-sighted  —  expect  to  succeed  against  a 
milhon  ?  " 

"Dear  Adeline!"  cried  the  baron,  seizing  his  wife 
and  pressing  her  to  his  heart. 

The  baroness  had  shed  a  balm  upon  the  bleeding 
wounds  of  his  self-love. 

"  Certainl3',  if  the  Due  d'Herouville  were  deprived 
of  his  mone}'  she  could  n't  hesitate  between  us,"  he 
remarked. 

"  M}^  friend,"  said  Adeline,  making  a  last  effort,  "  if 
3'Ou  must  have  mistresses,  why  not  take  them,  like 
Crevel,  from  women  of  a  class  who  do  not  cost  mone}", 
and  are  satisfied  with  ver}^  little?  It  would  be  so  much 
better  for  j'our  famil3^  I  can  conceive  of  3'our  ne- 
cessit3^,  but  I  do  not  understand  these  wounds  to  your 
self-love." 

"  Dear,  good  woman  that  3'ou  are  !  "  he  cried.  "  I 
am  an  old  fool !     I  don't  deserve  such  an  angel." 

"I  am  the  Josephine  of  m3^  Napoleon!"  she  said, 
with  a  tinge  of  sadness. 

"Josephine  was  not  3'our  equal,"  he  said.  "  Come, 
I  '11  go  and  play  wliist  with  my  brother  and  children. 
I  must  take  up  my  dut3'  as  the  father  of  a  famil3%  marr3' 
Hortense,  and  cease  to  pla3^  the  libertine." 

His  placable  good-nature  touched  poor  Adeline  so 
much  that  she  said :  ' '  That  creature  has  shocking 
taste  to  prefer  an3'  man,  no  matter  who,  to  m3'  Hector! 
Ah !  I  could  never  leave  3'ou  for  all  the  gold  in  the 
land !  How  could  I  when  I  have  had  the  happiness  of 
being  loved  by  you  ?  " 


Cousin   Bette,  103 

The  look  with  which  the  baron  rewarded  his  wife's  de- 
votion confirmed  her  in  the  belief  that  gentleness  and 
submission  were  a  wife's  best  weapons.  She  deceived 
herself.  Noble  sentiments  pushed  to  an  extreme  pro- 
duce results  similar  to  those  of  great  vices.  Bonaparte 
became  emperor  because  he  shot  down  the  populace  ten 
feet  from  the  place  where  Louis  XVI.  lost  his  head  and 
the  monarch}'  for  not  shedding  the  blood  of  a  Monsieur 
Sauce. 

On  the  morrow  Hortense,  who  had  put  the  seal  un- 
der her  pillow  so  as  not  to  be  separated  from  it  during 
the  night,  dressed  early,  and  asked  her  father  to  come 
into  the  garden  as  soon  as  he  was  up. 

About  half-past  nine  the  baron,  condescending  to  his 
daughter's  request,  gave  her  his  arm,  and  together  they 
walked  along  the  quays  by  the  pont  Royal  to  the  place 
du  Carrousel. 

"Let  us  walk  as  if  we  were  lounging,  papa,"  said 
Hortense,  as  the}'  passed  through  the  iron  gate  of  the 
vast  open  space. 

"  Lounging  here  !  "  cried  her  father,  laughing. 

"  We  shall  be  thought  to  be  going  to  the  Museum  ; 
and  down  there,"  she  added,  pointing  to  the  wooden 
shops  built  against  the  walls  of  the  houses  w^hich  stand 
at  a  right  angle  to  the  rue  du  Doyenne^  "  are  a  number 
of  bric-a-brac  shops  and  picture-dealers." 

"  Your  cousin  Bette  lives  over  there." 

"  I  know  that ;  but  I  don't  want  her  to  see  us." 

"  What  are  j'ou  aiming  for?"  said  the  baron,  suddenly 
aware  that  he  was  wdthin  thirt}'  feet  of  the  window  where 
he  had  seen  Madame  Marneffe. 

Hortense  led  her  father  to  the  front  of  a  shop  stand- 


104  Cousin   Bette. 

ing  at  the  angle  of  the  cluster  of  houses,  and  just  oppo- 
site to  the  Hotel  de  Nantes.  She  then  entered  the  shop 
itself,  leaving  her  father  employed  in  looking  up  at  the 
windows  of  the  prett}'  little  woman  who,  as  if  to  soothe 
the  coming  wound,  had  taken  the  old  fop's  fanc}^  the 
night  before.  He  could  not  help  thinking  of  his  wife's 
advice. 

"I  might  fall  back  on  a  little  bourgeoise,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  remembered  the  charms  of  Madame 
Marnefte.  "  That  little  woman  might  make  me  forget 
the  grasping  Josepha." 

The  following  scenes  now  occurred  outside  and  in- 
side of  the  shop. 

The  baron,  looking  up  at  the  windows  of  his  new 
fanc3^,  saw  the  husband  brushing  his  overcoat  himself, 
evidenth'  on  the  watch,  as  though  he  expected  to  see 
some  one  in  the  street.  Fearing  to  be  seen  and  recog- 
nized, the  baron  turned  his  back  to  the  rue  du  Do3*enne, 
but  still  in  a  way  to  cast  a  glance  over  his  shoulder 
from  time  to  time.  This  action  brought  him  almost  face 
to  face  w^ith  Madame  Marneffe,  who,  coming  from  the 
direction  of  the  quays,  turned  the  corner  of  the  build- 
ing to  reach  her  own  door.  Valerie  felt  a  commotion 
within  her  when  she  met  the  baron's  surprised  glance, 
to  which  she  replied  with  a  prudish  look. 

"  Prett}'  creature  !  "  exclaimed  the  baron,  "  for  whom 
one  might  commit  a  dozen  follies." 

"  Ah;  monsieur  !  "  she  answered,  turning  towards  him 
like  a  woman  who  decides  upon  a  sudden  action,  "you 
are  Monsieur  le  Baron  Hulot,  are  3'ou  not?  " 

The  baron,  more  and  more  surprised,  made  a  sign  in 
the  affirmative. 


Cousin  Bette.  105 

"  Well,  since  chance  has  twice  brought  our  ej-es  to- 
gether, and  I  have  the  happiness  to  excite  3'our  curios- 
ity, or  to  interest  j^ou,  I  will  tell  3'ou  that  instead  of 
committing  follies  for  me  you  ought  rather  to  do  us 
justice.     M}^  husband's  fate  depends  on  you  !  " 

''  How  so?  "  said  the  baron,  gallantl}'. 

"  He  is  a  clerk  of  your  department  at  the  war-office, 
in  the  section  of  Monsieur  Lebrun,  and  in  the  office  of 
Monsieur  Coquet,"  she  replied,  smihng. 

"  I  am  read}',  Madame  —  Madame  —  " 

"  Madame  Marneffe." 

"  I  am  ver}'  ready,  my  dear  Madame  Marneffe,  to  do 
any  justice  or  injustice  for  the  sake  of  your  pretty  e3'es. 
M}'  cousin  lives  in  your  house  ;  I  '11  go  and  see  her  one 
of  these  days,  —  in  fact,  as  soon  as  possible,  —  and  then 
you  can  bring  me  jour  request." 

"Forgive  m\  boldness.  Monsieur  le  baron  ;  but  you 
will  understand  why  I  have  dared  to  address  3'ou  when 
I  sa}'  that  I  am  unprotected." 

"Ha!" 

"  You  misunderstand  me,  monsieur  !  "  she  said,  low- 
erino-  her  eves. 

The  baron  thought  the  sun  was  disappearing. 

"  I  am  in  the  depths  of  despair ;  but  I  am  an  honest 
woman,"  she  continued.  "  I  lost  my  onl}'  protector  six 
months  ago,  the  Marechal  Montcornet." 

"  Are  3'ou  his  daughter?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur  ;  but  he  never  acknowledged  me." 

"  So  as  to  leave  3'ou  part  of  his  property-?'* 

"  He  left  me  nothing  ;  no  will  was  found." 

"  Poor  little  vroman  !  I  remember  the  marechal  died 
suddenly  of  apoplex}-.    AVell,  w^e  must  hope,  madame. 


106  Cousin  Bette. 

that  something  can  be  done  for  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  Bayards  of  the  empire." 

Madame  Marneffe  bowed  gracefuU}",  as  proud  of  her 
success  as  the  baron  was  of  his. 

"Where  the  devil  has  slie  been  this  morning,"  thought 
Hulot,  as  he  analyzed  the  undulating  movement  of  the 
dress  to  which  she  imparted  a  grace  that  was  perhaps 
slightly  exaggerated.  "  Her  face  is  so  tired  that  she 
can't  have  been  bathing ;  and  there 's  her  husband  watch- 
ing for  her.    It  is  puzzling,  and  needs  thinking  over." 

As  soon  as  Madame  Marneffe  had  entered  the  house 
it  occurred  to  the  baron  to  wonder  what  his  daughter 
was  doing  in  the  shop.  Entering  the  doorway,  but  still 
glancing  towards  Madame  Marneffe's  windows,  he  ran 
against  a  young  man  with  a  pale  brow  and  sparkling 
gray  eyes,  dressed  in  a  summer  overcoat  of  black  merino, 
trousers  of  coarse  linen,  and  shoes  covered  with  3'ellow 
leather  gaiters,  who  was  dashing  out  like  one  possessed. 
Looking  after  him,  the  baron  noticed  that  he  entered 
the  house  of  Madame  Marneffe. 

Hortense,  when  she  glided  into  the  shop,  had  in- 
stantly^ seen  the  famous  bronze  of  which  she  was  in 
search,  standing  on  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  on 
a  line  with  the  door.  Even  without  the  circumstances 
under  which  she  had  heard  of  it,  this  rare  production 
would  assuredly  have  attracted  the  young  girl  by  what 
we  must  call  the  brio  of  great  works,  for  she  herself 
might  have  been  taken  in  Italy  for  an  embodiment  of 
'HlJBrior 

All  works  of  genius  have  not,  in  a  like  degree,  this 
fire,  this  splendor  of  life,  instants  visible  to  all  eyes, 
even  those  of  the  ignorant.    Certain  pictures  of  Raphael, 


Cousin  Bette.  107 

such  as  the  celebrated  Transfiguration,  the  Madonna  of 
Foligno,  the  frescos  in  the  Stanze  of  the  Vatican,  do 
not  command  the  same  instant  admiration  as  the  Violin 
Pla3'er  in  the  Sciarra  galler}^,  the  portraits  of  the  Doni, 
and  the  Vision  of  Ezekiel  at  the  Pitti,  the  Bearing  of 
the  Cross  in  the  Borghese  collection,  and  the  Marriage 
of  the  Virgin  in  the  Brera  museum  at  Milan.  The  pict- 
ures of  St.  John  the  Baptist  in  the  tribune,  of  St.  Luke 
painting  the  Virgin,  in  the  Academy  of  Rome,  have  not 
the  charm  of  the  portrait  of  Leo  X.  and  the  Dresden 
Madonna.  Yet  all  are  equally  wonderful.  More  than 
that,  the  frescos  of  the  Stanze,  the  Transfiguration,  the 
Gems,  and  the  three  easel  pictures  of  the  Vatican,  are 
the  highest  expression  of  sublime  perfection.  But  these 
masterpieces  require,  from  even  the  most  cultivated  ad- 
mirer, a  strained  attention  and  careful  study  before  they 
are  understood  in  all  their  parts  ;  while,  on  the  contrary, 
the  Violinist,  the  Vision  of  Ezekiel,  and  the  Marriage 
of  the  Virgin  take  immediate  possession  of  the  heart 
through  the  double  door  of  the  eyes  ;  we  delight  in 
them  without  efljort ;  they  are  not  the  climax  of  art,  but 
the}'  are  its  happiness.  This  fact  proves  that  the  same 
congenital  uncertainties  attend  the  generation  of  works 
of  art  as  ma}'  be  seen  in  families  where  children  fortu- 
nately gifted  are  born  beautiful  and  cause  no  suffering 
to  their  mothers,  —  all  things  smile  upon  them,  and  for 
them  all  succeeds ;  in  short,  there  are  flowers  of  genius 
as  well  as  flowers  of  love. 

JSHo,  that  untranslatable  Italian  word  now  coming 
into  use  among  us,  expresses  the  spirit  of  the  earliest 
work,  the  fruit  of  the  impetuous  and  daring  fire  of 
youthful   genius  ;   an  impetuosity  sometimes  recovered 


108  Cousin  Bette, 

in  after  hours  of  happ3"  toil,  but  then  its  brio  no  longer 
comes  from  the  heart  of  the  artist ;  instead  of  flinging 
it  forth  from  his  own  bosom  as  a  volcano  belches  fire, 
he  owes  its  inspiration  to  circumstances,  to  love,  to 
rivalry,  often  to  hatred,  oftener  still  to  the  necessity  of 
maintaining  his  fame. 

Wenceslas's  little  group  was  to  the  exile's  coming 
work  what  the  Marriage  of  the  Virgin  is  to  the  com- 
pleted whole  of  Raphael's  paintings,  namely,  the  first 
step  of  genius,  —  made  with  inimitable  grace,  with  the 
eager  buoj'anc}'  of  childhood  and  its  abounding  jo^'ous- 
ness,  with  its  hidden  power,  hidden  beneath  the  white 
and  ros}'  flesh  whose  dimples  are,  as  it  were,  the  echoes 
of  a  mother's  smile.  It  is  said  that  Prince  Eugene  paid 
foLU'  hundred  thousand  francs  for  that  picture,  which 
would  be  worth  a  million  to  a  nation  which  owned  no 
Raphaels  ;  yet  no  one  would  give  that  sura  for  the  finest 
of  the  frescos,  whose  value,  nevertheless,  is  higher  to 
art. 

Hortense,  with  due  thought  for  the  limited  resources 
of  her  girlish  purse,  restrained  her  admiration  and  as- 
sumed a  little  air  of  indifference  as  she  asked  the  price 
of  the  group. 

"Fifteen  hundred  francs,"  answered  the  dealer,  cast- 
ing a  glance  at  a  3'onng  man  sitting  on  a  stool  in  a 
corner  of  the  shop.  The  latter  became  stupid  with 
admiration  on  beholding  the  living  masterpiece  of  Baron 
Hulot.  Hortense,  thus  informed  of  his  presence,  recog- 
nized the  artist  b}^  the  color  which  suddenlj^  flushed  a 
face  made  pallid  b^'  suffering ;  she  saw  the  graj-  eyes 
sparkle  as  she  asked  her  question  ;  she  looked  in  the 
thin,  drawn  face,  like  that  of  a  monk  sunken  in  asceti- 


Cousin  Bette.  109 

cism,  and  she  adored  the  well-cut  rosy  lips,  the  delicate 
chin,  the  abundant  chestnut  hair  worn  in  locks  after  the 
fashion  of  the  Slavs. 

''If  it  were  onl}-  twelve  hundred  francs,"  she  said, 
"  I  should  tell  you  to  send  it  home." 

"It  is  an  antique,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  dealer, 
who,  like  the  rest  of  his  fraternity,  thought  the  term  ex- 
pressed the  ne  plu8  ultra  of  bric-a-brac. 

"  Pardon  me,  monsieur,  it  was  made  this  ver}^  3'ear," 
she  replied,  quietly  ;  "  and  I  have  come  here  expressly  to 
ask  that,  in  case  3'ou  agree  to  my  price,  you  will  send 
the  artist  to  see  us ;  we  ma}'  be  able  to  procure  some 
important  commissions  for  him." 

"If  the  twelve  hundred  francs  go  to  him  what  will 
there  be  for  me?  I'm  a  dealer,  you  know,"  said  the 
man,  good-naturedl}'. 

"  Ah,  true  !  "  uttered  the  vouno*  lad  v.  in  a  slight  tone 
of  contempt. 

"Mademoiselle,  take  it!  I  will  arrange  with  the 
dealer,"  cried  Wenceslas,  beside  himself  with  delight. 

Fascinated  b}-  her  glorious  beaut}'  and  the  love  of 
art  which  was  manifest  within  her,  he  added  :  — 

"lam  the  maker  of  that  group;  for  the  last  ten 
days  I  have  come  here  three  times  a  day  to  see  if  any 
one  would  recognize  its  merits  and  offer  to  buy  it. 
You  are  my  first  admirer ;  take  it !  " 

"Come  to  my  house,  monsieur,  an  hour  hence  with 
the  dealer ;  here  is  my  father's  card,"  replied  Hortense. 

Then  as  the  dealer  went  into  another  room  to  wrap 
the  group  in  a  linen  cloth,  she  added  in  a  low  voice, 
to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  artist,  who  began 
to  think  he  was  dreamins:  :   "  For  the  sake  of  vour 


110  Cousin  Bette. 

future  interests,  Monsieur  Wenceslas,  do  not  show  that 
card  to  any  one  ;  do  not  tell  the  name  of  3'our  purchaser 
to  Mademoiselle  Fischer,  —  she  is  our  cousin." 

The  words  "  our  cousin  "  sent  a  blinding  flash  of  light 
into  the  mind  of  the  artist ;  he  saw  the  gates  of  Para- 
dise, and  Eve  within  them.  He  had  dreamed  of  Lis- 
beth's  beautiful  cousin,  just  as  Hortense  had  dreamed 
of  her  cousin's  lover,  and  when  the  3'oung  girl  entered 
the  shop  the  thought  had  occurred  to  him,  "  Would 
she  were  like  her ! "  We  can  fancy  the  glance  they 
now  exchanged  ;  it  flamed,  —  for  innocent  love  has  no 
hypocris3\ 

"Well,  w^hat  are  3'ou  about  in  here?"  asked  her 
father  as  he  entered,  after  encountering  the  flying 
artist. 

"  I  have  spent  all  m}^  savings,  twelve  hundred  francs  ; 
come !  " 

She  took  her  father's  arm  as  he  repeated  her  words, 
"  Twelve  hundred  francs  !  " 

"Thirteen  hundred  in  fact;  but  3'ou  must  lend  me 
the  diff'erence." 

' '  And  how  —  in  such  a  shop  —  could  3'ou  possibty 
spend  all  that?  " 

"Ah!"  said  the  girl  in  a  happ3'  voice,  "but  if  I 
have  found  a  husband  it  is  not  too  dear." 

"  A  husband  !  in  this  shop?" 

"  Papa,  dear  !  you  wouldn't  object  to  my  marrying  a 
great  artist  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not.  A  great  artist  in  these  days  is 
a  prince  without  a  title.  He  represents  fame  and  for- 
tune, the  greatest  social  advantages  —  after  virtue," 
he  added  in  a  pious  tone. 


Cousin   Bette.  Ill 

"Of  course/'  assented  Hortense.  "What  do  j'ou 
think  of  sculpture?" 

"A  very  bad  business,"  said  Ilulot,  shaking  his 
head.  "It  needs  immense  influence  over  and  above 
genius  ;  for  government  is  really  the  only  purchaser. 
It  is  an  art  without  openings  ;  in  these  days  there  are 
no  great  lords,  no  great  fortunes,  no  entailed  property, 
no  eldest  sons.  The  best  of  us  have  only  houseroom 
for  little  pictures  and  little  groups  —  in  fact,  the  arts 
are  in  danger  of  becoming  little" 

"  What  if  a  great  artist  were  to  make  his  own  open- 
ings?" uroed  Hortense. 

"  That  would  solve  the  difficulty." 

"  Suppose  he  obtained  influence?" 

"Better  still." 

"  And  was  born  noble?  " 

"  Nonsense  !  " 

"A  count." 

"What,  a  sculptor?" 

"  He  has  no  money." 

"And  he  seeks  that  of  Mademoiselle  Hortense 
Hulot?"  said  her  father,  teasing  her,  but  darting  an 
inquisitorial  look  into  her  eyes. 

"  This  great  artist,  count,  and  sculptor  has  just 
seen  3'our  daughter  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and 
for  only  five  minutes,  monsieur  le  baron,"  said  Hor- 
tense, coolly.  "Now,  listen,  my  dear  little  papa  — 
3'esterda3',  while  j'ou  were  at  the  Chamber,  mamma 
fainted  away.  She  said  it  was  a  nervous  attack,  but 
I  know  it  came  from  some  disappointment  about  m}' 
marriage ;  for  she  told  me  that  in  order  to  get  me  otf 
vour  hands  — " 


112  Cousin  Bette. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  she  never  used  an}"  such  ex- 
pression." 

"It  isn't  parHamentar^V'  said  Hortense,  laughing; 
"  no,  she  did  not  sa}'  that ;  but  I  know  that  a  daughter 
who  ought  to  be  married  and  is  n't  married  is  a  heav}' 
burden  for  kind,  good  parents  to  bear.  Well,  she 
thinks  that  if  some  man  of  talent  and  energy  could  be 
found  who  would  be  satisfied  with  a  dot  of  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  we  might  all  be  happ}'.  In  fact,  she  has 
been  trying  to  prepare  me  for  the  humbleness  of  m}' 
future  lot,  and  to  keep  me  from  forming  great  expecta- 
tions ;  that  means  that  I  have  no  dot  and  the  marriage 
is  broken  oflT." 

"  Your  mother  is  a  good  and  noble  woman,"  said  the 
father,  deepl}-  humiliated,  yet  pleased  b}^  his  daughter's 
confidence,  and  thankful  to  have  obtained  it. 

"Yesterday,"  continued  Hortense,  "she  told  me 
that  3'ou  had  allowed  her  to  sell  her  diamonds  for  the 
purpose  of  marrying  me  ;  but  I  prefer  that  she  should 
keep  them,  and  that  I  should  myself  find  a  husband. 
Do  3'ou  know,  I  think  I  have  found  the  very  man 
who  answers  to  mamma's  requirements." 

"What,  there!  in  the  place  du  Carrousel!  in  one 
morning.?  "  exclaimed  her  father. 

' '  Oh,  papa,  the  roots  of  the  evil  run  further  back," 
she  said  significantly. 

"Well,  my  little  girl,  tell  it  all  to  your  old  papa," 
he  said  in  a  coaxing  tone,  trying  to  hide  his  uneasiness. 


Cousin  Bette.  113 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  WHICH  CHANCE,  CONSTRUCTING  A  ROMANCE,  CARRIES 
MATTERS  ALONG  SO  SMOOTHLY  THAT  THE  SMOOTHNESS 
CANNOT    LAST. 

Under  promise  of  absolute  secrec}",  Hortense  told 
her  father  the  purport  of  her  conversations  with  Bette. 
When  the}'  reached  home  she  showed  him  the  famous 
seal  in  proof  of  her  own  sagacit3^  The  baron  in  his 
inward  soul  admired  the  wonderful  cleverness  of  3'oung 
girls  stirred  b}'  instinct,  when  he  perceived  the  excel- 
lence of  the  plan  w^hich  an  imaginaiy  love  had  suggested 
in  a  single  night  to  his  innocent  daughter. 

"  You  shall  see  the  masterpiece  which  I  have  just 
purchased,"  she  said.  "  They  are  to  bring  it  at  once 
and  Wenceslas  is  coming  with  it.  The  artist  of  such  a 
group  must  inevitabl}^  make  his  fortune ;  but  I  want 
3'ou  to  use  3'our  influence  and  get  him  an  order  for  a 
statue,  and  a  place  in  the  Institute." 

"  What  next?  "  cried  her  fother.  "  If  I  don't  take 
care  3'ou  will  be  married  as  soon  as  the  banns  can  be 
published  —  in  eleven  da3^s  !  " 

"  Must  we  wait  eleven  da3's?"  she  answered,  laugh- 
ing. "  Wlw,  in  five  minutes  I  loved  him,  just  as  3'ou 
loved  mamma  on  first  seeing  her,  and  he  loves  me  as  if 
we  had  known  each  other  two  3'ears.     Yes,"  she  said 

v^  'epl3^  to  her  father's  gesture,  '•  I  read  ten  volumes  of 


114  Cousin  Bette. 

love  in  his  e3'es.  I  know  3'ou  and  mamma  will  ac- 
cept him  as  my  husband  as  soon  as  he  has  proved  him- 
self a  man  of  genius.  Sculpture  is  the  first  of  arts  !  " 
she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  and  skipping  about  the 
room.     "  Come,  I  '11  tell  3^ou  the  whole  truth." 

' '  What !  is  there  an^'thing  more  ?  "  asked  her  father, 
smiling. 

Her  perfect  innoceuc}',  and  its  guileless  chatter,  had 
reassured  the  baron. 

"  A  confession  of  the  utmost  importance  !  "  she  an- 
swered. "  I  loved  him  before  I  knew  him  ;  but  I  am 
distractedl}''  in  love  for  the  last  hour  since  I  saw  him  !  " 

"Distracted!  I  should  say  so,"  replied  the  baron, 
charmed  with  the  spectacle  of  such  artless  passion. 

"Don't  punish  me  for  m}'  confidence!"  she  cried. 
"It  is  so  sweet  to  tell  my  dear  papa  that  I  love,  I 
love !  and  I  am  happ}'  in  loving !  You  shall  see  m}' 
Wenceslas,"  she  continued,  —  "a  brow  full  of  melan- 
chol}',  gra}'  eyes  shining  with  the  sun  of  genius,  and 
so  distinguished  in  manner !  Tell  me,  is  Livonia  a  fine 
countr}^?  The  idea  of  cousin  Bette  marrying  such  a 
man  when  she  is  old  enough  to  be  his  mother  !  It  would 
be  murder  !  But  I  am  so  jealous  of  what  she  has  done 
for  him !  I  don't  think  she  will  view  the  marriage  with 
satisfaction." 

"  Now,  my  darling,  j-ou  must  not  conceal  anything 
from  your  mother,"  said  the  baron. 

' '  Then  I  must  show  her  the  seal ;  and  I  promised 
cousin  Botte  not  to  betray  her  stor}'  to  mamma,  who, 
she  saj'S,  will  make  fun  of  it,"  said  Hortense. 

"  You  are  delicately  honorable  about  the  seal,  and 
yet  you  are  going  to  steal  a  lover  from  your  cousin !  " 


Cousin  Bette.  115 

"  I  gave  a  promise  about  the  seal,  but  none  about  its 
maker." 

This  little  episode,  patriarchal  in  its  simplicit}',  chimed 
in  well  with  the  secret  necessities  of  the  familj' ;  the 
baron,  therefore,  while  praising  his  daughter  for  her 
frankness,  told  her  that  in  future  she  must  leave  the 
management  of  the  affair  in  the  hands  of  her  parents. 

' '  You  understand,  m}'  little  daughter,  that  you  your- 
self cannot  ascertain  whether  your  cousin's  lover  is 
really  a  count,  whether  his  papers  are  regular,  and  his 
conduct  satisfactory.  As  to  your  cousin,  she  refused 
five  offers  when  she  was  twenty  years  younger ;  she  is 
no  obstacle.     I  '11  take  it  upon  myself  to  settle  that." 

"Now,  papa,  if  you  wish  to  see  me  married,  don't 
speak  of  our  lover  to  cousin  Bette  until  the  marriage 
contract  is  to  be  signed.  I  have  been  questioning  her 
on  this  subject  for  the  last  six  months,  and  I  can  tell 
you  there  is  something  inexplicable  about  her." 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  her  father,  puzzled. 

"  Well,  her  look  is  dangerous  when  I  go  too  far 
about  her  lover,  though  it  is  only  in  joke.  Make  3'our 
inquiries,  if  you  like,  but  leave  me  to  row  my  own  boat. 
My  frankness  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

"Our  Lord  said,  'Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
me  ; '  you  are  one  of  those  who  turned  and  came  back 
again!"  answered  the  baron,  in  a  slight  tone  of  rid- 
icule. 

After  breakfast  the  dealer  was  announced,  togethei* 
with  the  artist  and  the  work  of  art.  The  vivid  color 
which  overspread  the  girl's  face  made  the  baroness  un- 
easy, and  then  suspicious,  until  at  last  her  daughter's 
confusion  of  manner  and  the  warmth  of  her  glances  be- 


116  Cousin  Bette. 

tra3'ed  to  the  mother's  e3'e  the  existence  of  a  mj'steiy 
which  the  3'onng  heart  was  httle  able  to  conceal. 

Count  Steinbock,  dressed  in  black,  seemed  to  the 
baron  a  ver}^  distinguished  young  man. 

"Could  you  make  a  statue  in  bronze?"  he  said  to 
him,  examining  the  little  group. 

After  admiring  it  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur  he 
passed  it  to  his  wife,  who  knew  nothing  of  art. 

"  Is  n't  it  beautiful,  mamma?"  whispered  Hortense. 

"  A  statue  !  Monsieur  le  baron,  that  is  not  so  diffi- 
cult as  the  composition  of  a  clock  like  this,"  replied 
the  artist  to  the  baron's  question,  pointing  to  a  model 
in  wax  of  the  Twelve  Hours  eluding  the  grasp  of  the 
Loves,  which  the  dealer  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
bring  with  him,  and  was  now  displaying  on  the  side- 
board in  the  dining-room. 

"  Leave  this  model  with  me !  "  said  the  baron,  amazed 
at  the  beauty  of  the  work.  "  I  wish  to  show  it  to  the 
ministers  of  the  Interior  and  of  Commerce." 

"  Who  is  this  3'oung  man  who  seems  to  interest  you 
so  much  ?  "  asked  the  baroness  of  her  daughter. 

"  An  artist  able  to  put  such  a  model  into  execution 
could  make  a  hundred  thousand  francs  by  it,"  said  the 
dealer,  assuming  a  knowing  and  mj'sterious  air  as  soon 
as  he  saw  a  mutual  understanding  in  the  ej^es  of  the 
artist  and  the  young  lad3\  "  He  need  sell  only  twent3- 
copies  at  eight  thousand  francs  apiece,  —  for  each  cop3' 
will  cost  a  thousand  crowns  to  execute  ;  but  if  he  num- 
bers the  copies  and  destro3's  the  model,  twent3'-four 
amateurs  will  easil3'  be  found  anxious  to  be  the  onl3^ 
possessors  of  a  work  like  that." 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs  !  "  cried  Steinbock,  look- 


Cousin  Bette.  117 

ing  at  Hortense,  the  dealer,  the  baron,  and  the  baroness, 
each  in  turn. 

"Yes,  a  hundred  thousand  francs!"  repeated  the 
man;  "and  if  I  were  rich  enough  I'd  buy  it  of  you 
m3^self,  for  if  the  model  is  destro3'ed  it  will  become  a 
valuable  propert}'.  Some  prince  or  other  would  give 
thirty  or  forty  thousand  francs  for  such  a  treasure  to 
adorn  his  salon.  Art  has  never  yet  produced  a  clock 
which  satisfies  both  the  middle  classes  and  the  connois- 
seurs, and  this  of  Monsieur  Steinbock  is  the  solution 
of  the  difficulty." 

"  These  are  for  you,  monsieur,"  said  Hortense,  giv- 
ing six  napoleons  to  the  dealer,  who  withdrew. 

"  Do  not  mention  this  visit  to  an}'  one,"  said  the 
artist  to  the  merchant,  following  him  to  the  door.  "  If 
an}'  one  asks  you  where  the  group  has  gone,  say  to  the 
Due  d'Herouville,  the  famous  amateur  who  lives  in  the 
rue  de  Varennes."     The  man  nodded  assent. 

"May  I  ask  your  name?"  said  the  baron  to  the 
count,  as  he  re-entered  the  room. 

"  Comte  de  Steinbock." 

"  Have  you  papers  to  prove  it?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  baron,  in  the  Russian  and  Ger- 
man languages  ;  but  they  are  not  legalized." 

"  You  think  you  are  capable  of  making  a  statue  nine 
feet  high?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Well,  if  the  personages  I  am  about  to  consult  are 
satisfied  with  these  specimens  of  your  work,  I  can  ob- 
tain for  you  an  order  to  make  the  statue  of  Marechal 
Montcornet,  which  is  about  to  be  erected  over  his  tomb 
in  Pere-la-chaise.     The  minister  of  War  and  the  old 


118  Cousin  Bette. 

officers  of  the  Imperial  Guard  give  a  large  sum  towards 
it,  so  that  we  may  control  the  choice  of  the  artist." 

"Oh,  monsieur,  it  would  make  my  fortune !  "  cried 
Steinbock,  overwhelmed  by  so  many  aspects  of  hap- 
piness. 

"  Then  3'on  ma}'  feel  eas}',"  answered  the  baron,  gra- 
ciously ;  "  if  the  two  ministers  to  whom  I  shall  show 
your  group  and  this  wax  model  are  pleased  with  3'our 
work,  your  future  is  safe." 

Hortense  squeezed  her  father's  arm  till  it  ached. 

"  Bring  me  3'our  papers,  and  sa}"  nothing  of  3'our 
hopes  to  any  one  —  not  even  to  our  old  cousin  Bette." 

"  Lisbeth  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Hulot,  suddenh'  com- 
prehending the  beginning  and  end  of  the  matter,  though 
not  its  intermediate  histor}'. 

"  I  could  prove  to  3'ou  my  capacit3^  b3"  making  a  bust 
of  Madame  la  baronne,"  said  Wenceslas. 

Struck  with  Madame  Hulot's  great  beaut3',  the  artist 
had  been  comparing  mother  and  daughter. 

"Well,  monsieur,  life  will  soon  open  brightly  for  3'ou,^' 
said  the  baron,  quite  captivated  with  the  elegant  and 
distinguished  air  of  the  3'oung  count.  "You  will  find 
out  that  genius  cannot  long  remain  hidden  in  Paris, 
where  all  labor  gets  its  just  reward." 

Hortense,  blushing,  presented  the  3'oung  man  with  a 
pretty  Algerine  purse  containing  sixt3'  pieces  of  gold. 
The  artist,  touched  in  his  pride  of  nobilit3',  echoed  the 
color  of  lier  cheeks  with  a  flush  of  mortification  on  his 
own  which  it  was  eas3^  to  understand. 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  first  money  3'ou  have  ever  received 
for  3'Our  works,"  said  the  baroness,  kindly. 

"  Yes,  madame ;  the  first  for  m}'  works  of  art,  but 


Cousin  Bette.  119 

not  the  first  for  my  labor.  I  have  worked  as  a  journey- 
man." 

"  Well,  let  us  hope  that  my  daughter's  money  may 
bring  you  happiness,"  answered  Madame  Hulot. 

"  Take  it  without  scruple,''  said  the  baron,  seeing 
that  Wenceslas  held  the  purse  undecidedl}^  in  his  hand 
without  putting  it  in  his  pocket.  "We  shall  certainly 
recover  the  amount  from  some  great  lord,  —  a  prince 
perhaps,  —  who  will  pa}'  us  more  than  we  have  given 
3'ou  for  the  possession  of  your  beautiful  masterpiece." 

"  Ah,  papa,  I  value  it  too  much  ever  to  part  with  it 
to  an}'  one,  —  even  to  one  of  the  royal  princes,"  ex- 
claimed Ilortense. 

"  I  will  make  mademoiselle  another  and  prettier 
group." 

"  But  it  would  not  be  this  one,"  she  answered,  softly. 
Then,  as  if  ashamed  of  having  said  so  much,  she  went 
into  the  garden. 

"  I  shall  destro}'  the  model  when  I  get  home,"  said 
Steinbock. 

"  Well,  bring  me  your  papers,  and  you  shall  soon  hear 
from  me  if  these  works  fulfil  the  expectations  which  I 
have  formed  of  them,  monsieur,"  said  the  baron. 

On  this  the  artist  felt  obliged  to  take  his  leave.  After 
bowing  to  Madame  Hulot  and  Hortense,  who  returned 
from  the  garden  expressh'  to  receive  that  bow,  he  went 
to  walk  in  the  Tuileries,  not  daring  —  in  fact,  not  able 
—  to  return  to  his  garret,  where  his  tj'rant  would  as- 
sault him  with  questions  and  wrench  his  secret  from  his 
breast.  As  he  walked  along,  the  lover  designed  in  fancy 
a  dozen  groups  ;  he  felt  within  him  the  power  of  chisel- 
ling marble  like  Canova,  who  once  in  a  like  extremity 


120  Oousiii  Bette. 

came  near  perishing.  Wenceslas  was  transfigured  by 
Hortense,  who  became  for  him  a  visible  and  tangible 
Inspiration. 

"  Now,"  said  the  baroness  to  her  daughter,  "  tell  me 
what  all  this  means." 

"  Well,  m^"  dear  mamma,  3'ou  have  just  seen  cousin 
Bette's  lover,  who  is,  I  hope,  henceforth  mine.  But  shut 
your  eyes  and  pretend  you  don't  see.  There !  I,  who 
meant  to  hide  ever3'thing  from  j^ou,  am  just  on  the  point 
of  telling  it  all !  " 

"  Good-b}^,  my  dears,"  said  the  baron,  kissing  his 
wife  and  daughter.  "  I  think  I  '11  go  and  see  the  Nann}'- 
goat,  and  find  out  something  about  the  young  man." 

"  Be  prudent,  papa,"  cautioned  Hortense. 

"  My  daughter,"  cried  the  baroness,  after  listening 
to  the  young  girl's  poem,  whose  last  strophe  was  the 
incident  of  the  morning,  "  my  dear  little  daughter,  the 
worst  deceiver  upon  this  earth  is,  and  ever  will  be,  art- 
less innocence." 

True  passions  have  an  instinct.  Put  a  dish  of  fruit 
before  a  gourmand,  and  he  will  choose  the  best  unerr- 
ingly, without  looking  at  it ;  leave  a  well-bred  3'oung 
girl  to  select  a  husband,  and  if  she  is  in  a  position  to 
have  the  man  she  chooses,  she  is  seldom  mistaken.  Na- 
ture is  infallible.  The  action  of  nature  in  this  respect  is 
called  love  at  first  sight.  In  love,  first  sight  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  second  sight. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  baroness,  though  concealed  by 
her  maternal  dignit}^  was  equal  to  that  of  her  daughter  ; 
for,  of  the  three  ways  of  marrying  Hortense  pointed  out 
by  Crevel,  the  best,  to  her  mind,  seemed  to  have  come 
about.  In  this  event  she  saw  an  answer  to  her  fervent 
pra^'ers. 


Cousin   Bette.  121 

Mademoiselle  Fischer's  galle3'-slave,  compelled  after 
a  while  to  go  home,  had  the  happ}'  thought  of  hiding 
his  lover's  jo}-  beneath  the  legitimate  joy  of  the  artist 
rejoicing  in  his  first  success. 

"Victory!  My  group  is  sold  to  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville  ! "  he  cried,  flinging  the  sixty  gold  pieces  on  the 
old  maid's  table. 

We  may  be  sure  he  had  hidden  next  his  heart  the 
purse  in  which  Hortense  gave  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  that 's  fortunate  ;  for  I  was 
getting  worn  out  with  w^ork.  You  see,  m}'  dear  child, 
mone}'  comes  in  so  slowly  from  the  business  3'ou  in- 
sisted on  choosing,  —  this  is  the  first  time  you  have 
earned  a  penny  in  all  the  five  years  you  've  plodded  at 
it !  This  sum  is  barely  enough  to  pay  me  back  what 
you  have  cost  me  since  you  gave  me  that  note  of  your§ 
in  exchange  for  all  my  savings.  But  never  mind/'  she 
added,  counting  the  gold,  "  this  monej- will  all  be  spent 
on  you.  It  will  make  us  comfortable  for  a  year ;  and 
meantime  you  will  be  able  to  pay  me  oflT  and  get  a  good 
sum  for  3'ourself,  if  you  keep  on  at  this  rate." 

Seeing  that  the  deception  was  successful,  Wences- 
las  went  on  to  tell  Bette  various  tales  about  the  Due 
d'Herouville. 

"  I  shall  make  3'ou  wear  black,  —  that 's  the  fashion, 
—  and  get  you  a  new  supply  of  Unen  ;  for  3'ou  must 
dress  better  if  3'ou  go  among  such  people,"  answered 
Bette.  "And  you  need  better  rooms, — larger  and 
more  suitable  than  this  horrible  garret.  I  '11  furnish 
them  properly.  How  gay  you  are  !  "  she  added,  exam- 
ininoj  Wenceslas.     "  Whv,  vou  are  no  longer  the  same 


man 


\  " 


122  Cousin  Bette. 

*'  They  told  me  my  group  was  a  masterpiece." 

"So  much  the  better;  now  make  others,"  said  the 
hard,  practical  spinster,  incapable  of  understanding  the 
happiness  of  his  triumph  or  his  joy  in  the  creation  of 
beauty.  "  Don't  think  about  what  is  already  sold,  but 
make  something  else  fit  to  sell.  You  spent  two  hun- 
dred francs  in  monej^,  not  counting  your  time  and  labor, 
on  that  horrid  Samson,  and  the  clock  will  cost  more 
than  two  thousand  to  execute.  If  3'ou  take  my  advice, 
3''0u  '11  finish  off  those  two  little  boys  crowning  the  lit- 
tle girl  with  harebells,  —  that  will  please  the  Parisians. 
Meantime  I  '11  go  round  to  Monsieur  Graff,  the  tailor, 
on  my  way  to  Monsieur  Crevel's.  Go  up  to  3'our  own 
room,  and  he  will  send  and  measure  you." 

The  next  day  the  baron,  by  this  time  in  love  with 
Madame  Marneffe,  paid  a  visit  to  his  cousin,  who  was 
a  good  deal  surprised  on  finding  him  at  the  door  when 
she  opened  it,  as  he  had  never  before  appeared  in  those 
regions.  She  at  once  thought,  "Can  Hortense  be  en- 
vious of  m}'  lover?"  Crevel  had  told  her,  the  evening 
before,  of  the  rupture  of  the  proposed  marriage. 

"  Wh}',  cousin,  3'ou  here?  This  is  the  first  time  in 
3^our  life  that  3'ou  have  come  to  see  me,  and  I  am  sure 
it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  my  pretty  eyes  !  " 

"  Pretty  !  that  is  true  !  "  replied  the  baron.  "  They 
are  the  handsomest  e3'es  I  ever  saw  !  " 

"  What  has  brought  you?  I  am  ashamed  to  receive 
you  in  such  a  hovel." 

The  first  of  the  two  rooms  which  Bette  occupied 
served  as  a  salon,  dining-room,  kitchen,  and  work- 
room. The  furniture  was  that  of  well-to-do  working- 
folks  :  chairs  of  walnut  wood  with   straw  bottoms  ;  a 


Cousin  Bette,  123 

small  dining-table,  also  of  walnut ;  a  work-table  ;  col- 
ored engravings  in  black  wooden  frames  ;  little  muslin 
curtains  at  the  window,  and  a  large  walnut  wardrobe. 
The  tiled  floor  was  well  polished ;  ever3'thing  in  the 
room  shone  with  cleanliness,  without  a  grain  of  dust, 
and  yet  it  was  cold  and  cheerless,  —  a  true  picture 
after  Terburg,  with  nothing  lacking,  not  even  the  gray 
tints  reproduced  by  a  wall-paper  once  blue  and  now 
faded  to  the  color  of  flax.  As  to  the  bedroom,  no  one 
had  ever  penetrated  thither. 

The  baron  took  in  everything  at  a  glance,  saw  the 
sign-manual  of  commonness  everj'where,  from  the  stove 
of  cast-iron  down  to  the  household  utensils,  and  his 
stomach  actuall}^  turned  as  he  said  to  himself,  "This 
is  virtue ! " 

"  Why  am  I  here?"  he  said  aloud.  "  You  are  too 
clever  a  girl  not  to  end  by  guessing  wh}^  so  I  had 
better  tell  you  at  once,"  he  cried,  sitting  down  b}- 
the  window  and  pushing  back  a  corner  of  the  muslin 
curtain.  "There's  a  very  pretty  little  woman  in  this 
house." 

"  Madame  Marneffe.  Oh,  now  I  understand  !  "  she 
said;  "but  how  about  Josepha?" 

"Alas,  cousin,  there's  no  longer  a  Josepha.  She 
has  turned  me  off  like  a  footman." 

"And  3'ou  propose  to  — "  said  his  cousin,  looking 
at  him  with  the  dignit}-  of  a  prude  oflTended  ten  minutes 
too  soon. 

"As  Madame  Marneffe  is  a  very  well-bred  woman, 
and  the  wife  of  a  government  clerk,  it  won't  compro- 
mise 3'ou  to  receive  her  here,"  said  the  baron.  "  I  want 
you  to  be  neighborly.     Oh  !  you  will  like  it.     She  will 


124  Cousin   Bette. 

be  veiy  polite  to  the  cousin  of  a  director  of  the  War 
department." 

Just  then  the  rustle  of  a  dress  was  heard  on  the  stair- 
case, and  the  tread  of  a  little  boot.  The  sound  ceased  at 
the  landing.  After  knocking  twice  at  the  door,  Madame 
MarnefTe  appeared. 

"  Forgive  me  this  irruption,  mademoiselle,"  she  said  ; 
"but  I  did  not  find  j'ou  yesterda}^,  when  I  came  to 
pa}'  you  a  little  visit.  We  are  neighbors  ;  and  if  I  had 
known  you  were  cousin  to  a  councillor  of  state,  I  should 
have  asked  j^ou  long  ago  to  employ  3'our  influence  with 
him  in  our  behalf.  I  have  just  seen  Monsieur  le  direc- 
teur  enter  your  apartment,  and  I  have  taken  the  lib- 
erty to  call ;  for  m}'  husband,  Monsieur  le  baron,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Hulot.  "  has  told  me  that  a  report 
upon  the  emplo3'es  in  the  department  is  to  be  sent  in 
to-morrow." 

She  seemed  to  be  agitated  and  to  catch  her  breath. 
It  is  ti'ue  that  she  had  really  run  up  the  stairs. 

"  You  need  not  offer  me  a  petition,  fair  lady,"  replied 
the  baron.    "  It  is  I  who  ask  the  favor  of  visiting  3'ou." 

"  Certainly,  if  mademoiselle  will  permit,  pray  come," 
said  Madame  Marneffe. 

"Go,  cousin ;  I  will  rejoin  you,"  said  Bette,  discreetl}'. 

The  wily  Parisian  woman  had  counted  so  surely  on 
this  visit  and  on  the  intentions  of  the  baron  that  she 
had  not  or\\y  made  a  toilet  appropriate  to  such  an  inter- 
view, but  she  had  also  decorated  her  apartment.  Flow- 
ers, bought  on  credit,  filled  the  room.  Marneffe  himself 
had  helped  his  wife  to  clean  the  furniture  and  polish  up 
the  various  little  knick-knacks,  —  cleansing,  brushing, 
and  dusting  everything.    Valerie  wished  to  appear  in  a 


Cousin  Bette.  125 

bower  of  freshness  which  should  please  Monsieur  le 
clirecteur,  and  please  sufficiently  to  enable  her  to  be 
stern,  and  hold  the  sugar-plum  aloft  as  with  a  child,  — 
in  short,  to  emplo}'  the  resources  of  modern  tactics. 
She  judged  Hulot  rightl3^  Let  a  Parisian  woman  once 
degrade  herself,  and  she  can  overturn  a  ministry. 

This  hero  of  the  empire,  filled  with  the  notions  of  the 
empire,  knew  little  of  the  ways  of  modern  love,  with 
its  new-fangled  scruples,  and  the  various  sophistries  in- 
vented since  1830,  by  w^hich  "  poor  feeble  woman"  has 
come  to  look  upon  herself  as  the  victim  of  her  lover's 
wishes,  as  the  sister  of  charity  who  binds  his  wound,  as 
an  ano-el  of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice.  This  new  art 
of  love  expends  a  vast  quantit}^  of  pious  words  on  the 
devil's  work.  Passion  is  a  martyr ;  its  votaries  aspire 
to  the  ideal,  to  the  infinite,  and  each  side  seeks  to 
become  better  and  purer  through  love.  All  these  fine 
phrases  are  a  pretext  to  put  more  ardor  into  love's  prac- 
tice, more  fury  into  its  catastrophes.  Such  hypocris}' 
— the  special  symptom  of  our  time — has  gangrened  gal- 
lantr}^  The  man  and  the  woman  consider  themselves 
angels,  and  act  like  devils  if  the}'  can.  Love  in  Hulot's 
palmy  da^'s  had  no  time  to  analyze  itself  between  two 
campaigns,  and  in  1809  it  rushed  to  victor}-  like  the  em- 
pire itself  After  the  Restoration,  the  handsome  baron, 
returning  to  the  conquest  of  women  onl}',  had  in  the 
first  instance  consoled  a  few  of  his  former  loves,  now 
eclipsed  hke  the  extinguished  stars  of  the  political  fir- 
mament, and  after  that,  growing  an  old  man,  he  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  captured  by  the  Jenny  Cadines  and 
Josephas. 

Madame  Marneffe  had  pointed  her  guns  with  refer- 


126  Cousin  Bette. 

ence  to  the  director's  antecedents,  which  her  husband 
told  her  at  full  length,  having  obtained  his  information 
at  the  war  office.  The  corned}'  of  modern  sentiment 
might,  Valerie  thought,  liave  the  charm  of  novelt}^  for 
such  a  man ;  and  the  trial  that  she  made  of  it  on  this 
occasion  answered,  let  us  here  sa}^,  to  her  expectations. 


Coim7i  Bette.  127 


CHAPTER   X. 

SOCIAL    COMPACT     BETWEEN     EASY    VIRTUE    AND    JEALOUS 
CELIBACY  —  SIGNED,    BUT    NOT    RECORDED. 

Thanks  to  her  sentimental  and  romantic  manoeuvres, 
Valerie,  without  committing  herself  in  any  wa}',  ob- 
tained the  appointment  as  sub-director  and  the  cross 
of  the  Legion  of  honor  for  her  husband. 

This  little  triumph  was  not  attained  without  cer- 
tain dinners  at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale,  theatre  parties, 
and  a  variety  of  trifling  gifts,  such  as  shawls,  scarfs, 
dresses,  and  jewelry.  The  apartment  in  the  rue  du 
Doyenne  did  not  please  the  lady,  and.  the  baron  con- 
spired to  furnish  another  magnificently  in  a  charming 
modern  house  in  the  rue  Vanneau. 

Monsieur  Marneffe  obtained  leave  of  absence  for  two 
weeks,  to  be  taken  within  a  month,  for  the  purpose  of 
attending  to  his  private  affairs  in  the  country,  together 
with  a  gift  of  money,  with  which  he  privately  intended 
to  travel  in  Switzerland  and  stud3^  the  fair  sex. 

Though  Baron  Hulot  was  much  taken  up  with  his 
new  charmer,  he  did  not  neglect  his  prospective  son-in- 
law.  The  minister  of  commerce,  Comte  Popinot,  loved 
art.  Hulot  induced  him  to  give  two  thousand  francs 
for  a  copy  of  the  Samson  group,  on  condition  that  the 
the  cast  should  be  destroyed  and  that  no  copies  but 


128  Cousin   Bette. 

his  own  and  Mademoiselle  Hulot's  should  exist.  The 
group  excited  the  admiration  of  a  prince  of  the  blood, 
who  was  then  show^n  the  model  of  the  clock,  and  or- 
dered it ;  but  as  he  wished  only  one  copy  to  be  made, 
he  was  willing  to  pay  thirt}^  thousand  francs.  Artists 
were  consulted,  among  them  Stidmann,  and  they  all 
declared  that  the  author  of  such  w^orks  was  competent 
to  make  a  statue.  Thereupon  the  Marechal  Prince  of 
Wissembourg,  minister  of  war,  and  chairman  of  the 
committee  having  in  hand  the  erection  of  the  statue  to 
Marechal  Montcornet,  held  a  consultation  with  his  col- 
leagues, which  resulted  in  an  order  for  its  execution 
being  given  to  Steinbock.  Comte  Eugene  de  Kastignac, 
then  under-secretary  of  state,  wanting  a  specimen  of  an 
artist  whose  fame  increased  amid  the  plaudits  of  his 
rivals,  obtained  from  Steinbock  the  charming  group  of 
two  little  boys  crowning  a  little  girl,  and  promised  him 
a  studio  at  the  marble  works  of  the  government,  situ- 
ated, as  we  all  know,  at  the  Gros-Caillou. 

In  short, Wenceslas  attained  success,  but  success  such 
as  it  is  in  Paris,  —  that  is,  frenzied,  overwhelming,  likel}' 
to  crush  the  man  whose  loins  and  shoulders  are  not 
powerful  enough  to  bear  it,  whicli,  by  the  wa}^  often 
happens.  The  newspapers  and  magazines  discussed 
Wenceslas  Steinbock,  although  no  rumor  of  these  arti- 
cles ever  reached  either  Bette  or  himself.  Everj^  day, 
as  soon  as  Mademoiselle  Fischer  departed  for  her  din- 
ner, Wenceslas  went  to  the  Hulots',  where  he  spent  two 
or  three  hours,  except  on  the  day  when  the  old  maid 
dined  there.  This  state  of  things  lasted  some  little 
time. 

The  baron  satisfied  as  to  Steinbock's  artistic  merit 


Cousin  Bette.  129 

and  social  position,  the  baroness  pleased  with  his  nature 
and  principles;  Hortense,  proud  of  her  sanctioned  love 
and  the  fame  of  her  lover,  now  spoke  openly  of  the 
marriage.  The  family  happiness  was  at  its  height  when 
a  piece  of  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  Madame  Marneffe 
imperilled  everything. 

Lisbeth,  whom  the  baron  endeavored  to  all}^  with 
Madame  Marneffe,  so  as  to  keep  a  private  eye  upon 
the  household,  had  already  dined  with  Valerie,  who,  on 
her  side,  wanted  an  ear  in  the  Hulot  family,  and  there- 
fore made  much  of  the  old  maid.  Valerie  invited  Bette 
to  a  house-warming  in  the  new  apartment  whenever  the 
time  came  to  install  herself  The  spinster,  delighted  to 
find  another  house  where  she  could  get  a  dinner,  and 
captivated  with  Madame  Marneffe,  was  very  affection- 
ate to  her  new  friend.  Of  all  those  among  whom  she 
revolved  no  one  had  done  as  much  for  her.  Indeed, 
Madame  Marneffe,  full  of  attentions  to  Mademoiselle 
Fischer,  held,  so  to  speak,  the  same  position  towards 
her  which  she  herself  held  towards  the  baroness.  Rivet, 
Crevel,  and  others  with  whom  she  dined.  The  Mar- 
neffes  had  excited  the  commiseration  of  cousin  Bette 
by  letting  her  see  the  absolute  wretchedness  of  their 
home,  heightening  it  with  a  tale  of  moving  incidents : 
ungrateful  friends  ;  illness  ;  a  mother  (Madame  Fortin) 
from  whom  the}'  concealed  their  poverty,  allowing  her 
to  die  under  the  belief  that  she  was  still  wealthy,  thanks 
to  almost  superhuman  sacrifices  and  concealments  on 
their  part,  etc. 

"  Poor  people  !  "  she  said  to  her  cousin  Hulot ;  "  you 
are  quite  right  to  take  an  interest  in  them.  They  de- 
serve it  for  their  courage  and  their  goodness.     But  I 


130  Cousin   Bette. 

don't  see  how  the}-  can  live  on  the  salary  of  even  a  sub- 
director,  because  the}^  have  been  forced  to  go  into  debt 
since  Marechal  Montcornet  died.  What  an  outrage  in 
the  government,  to  expect  an  emplo3'e  of  the  war  office 
to  live  in  Paris,  with  a  wife  and  children,  on  two  thou- 
sand four  hundred  francs  a  3'ear  !  " 

A  vounoj  woman  who  showed  Bette  all  the  siorns  of 
friendship  —  who  told  her  all  while  consulting  her,  flat- 
tering her,  asking  her  advice  and  seeming  to  follow 
it  —  became  in  a  very  short  time  dearer  to  the  eccentric 
old  maid  than  au}^  of  her  relations. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  baron,  admiring  in  Madame 
Marnefle  a  propriet}'  of  conduct,  education,  and  man- 
ners not  possessed  by  Jenn}^  Cadine  or  Josepha  or 
any  of  their  friends,  fell  in  love  with  her  in  a  month 
with  an  old  man's  passion,  —  that  insensate  passion 
which  nevertheless  seems  outwardly  reasonable.  She 
was  never  guilt}'  of  reckless  jesting,  nor  excess,  nor 
mad  extravagance,  nor  depravity,  nor  contempt  of 
social  decency,  nor  that  complete  independence  of  all 
restraint  which  in  the  actress  and  the  singer  had  been 
his  ruin.  He  escaped  also  the  rapacit}'  of  such  crea- 
tures, —  a  craving  comparable  only  to  the  thirst  of 
devils. 

Madame  Marneffe,  now  become  his  friend  and  con- 
fidante, made  manj'  difficulties  before  she  would  accept 
his  gifts. 

"  You  shall  give  us  what  you  please  in  places  and 
perquisites,  —  in  short,  whatever  you  can  obtain  for  us 
from  the  government ;  but  do  not  seek  to  degrade  a 
woman  whom  you  say  you  love,"  said  Valerie.  "  If 
you  do,  I  shall  no  longer  believe  your  professions  ;   and 


Cousin  Bette.  131 

I  love  to  believe  3'ou,"  she  added,  with  the  glance  of  a 
Saint  Theresa  appealing  to  heaven. 

Each  gift  was  now  a  fortress  to  carr}^,  —  a  conscience 
to  violate.  The  poor  baron  manoeuvred  to  be  allowed 
to  offer  some  trifle,  —  costl}',  of  course,  —  and  congrat- 
ulated himself  in  having  met  with  a  species  of  virtue 
which  seemed  the  realization  of  his  dreams.  In  this 
primitive  household  the  baron  felt  he  was  as  much  a 
god  as  he  was  at  home.  Monsieur  Marneffe  seemed 
a  thousand  leagues  from  suspecting  that  Jupiter  medi- 
tated a  descent  in  a  golden  shower  upon  his  wife,  and 
he  made  himself  the  lackey  of  his  revered  chief. 

Madame  Marneffe,  twentj'-three  j^ears  of  age,  a  sim- 
ple, timid  bourgeoise,  a  flower  hidden  in  the  rue  du 
Doj^enne,  must  of  course  be  ignorant  of  the  depravity 
and  licentious  wickedness  for  which  the  baron  now  felt 
such  unutterable  disgust ;  he  had  never  before  known 
the  charms  of  reluctant  virtue  which  the  timid  Valerie 
now  made  him  enjoj",  in  the  words  of  the  old  song,  "  to 
the  end  of  the  stream." 

Matters  standing  thus  between  Hector  and  Valerie, 
the  reader  will  not  be  sui'prised  to  learn  that  the  latter 
soon  heard  from  her  adorer  of  the  approaching  mar- 
riage of  his  daughter  to  the  great  artist  Steinbock.  Be- 
tween a  lover  who  has  gained  no  rights  and  a  woman 
who  makes  difficulties  there  are  many  oral  and  moral 
struggles  in  which  language  often  betra3's  the  inward 
thought,  just  as  a  foil  in  a  fencing  lesson  has  all  the 
eager  activit}"  of  the  sword.  Wise  men  should  recollect 
and  imitate  at  such  times  Monsieur  de  Turenne.  The 
baron  let  fall  —  in  repl}'  to  a  tender  remark  of  Valerie, 
who  had  more  than  once  exclaimed,  "I  cannot  conceive 


132  Qousin  Bette. 

how  a  woman  can  give  herself  to  a  man  who  is  not 
wholl}^  hers"  —  that  the  approaching  marriage  of  his 
daughter  would  give  him  more  liberty'  of  action.  He 
swore  that  love  was  over  between  Madame  Hulot  and 
himself  for  many  years. 

t  ,•'  But  they  say  she  is  so  beautiful! "  objected  Madame 
Marneffe  ;  "I  need  proofs  of  what  3'ou  sa}'." 

"You  shall  have  them,"  cried  the  baron,  delighted 
that  Valerie  seemed  willing  to  compromise  herself. 

"  But  how?    You  must  never  abandon  me,"  said  the 
siren. 

Hector  was  then  obliged  to  reveal  his  plans  about 
the  house  in  the  rue  Vanneau  to  prove  to  his  Valerie 
that  he  meant  to  give  her  that  half  of  life  which  be- 
longs to  a  legitimate  wife,  reckoning  the  existence  of 
civilized  man  to  be  equalh^  divided  into  da}^  and  night. 
He  spoke  of  separating  decently'  from  his  wife,  as  soon 
as  their  daughter  was  married,  h\  the  simple  expedient 
of  leaving  her;  the  baroness  would  pass  her  time  with 
Hortense  and  the  3'ounger  Hulots.  He  was  sure,  he 
said,  of  his  wife's  obedience,  —  "  and  then,  m}'  angel, 
my  life,  my  true  home  will  be  in  the  rue  Vanneau." 

"How  coolly  you  dispose  of  me!"  said  Madame 
Marneffe;   "and  how  about  my  husband?" 

"That  vagabond?" 

"Ah,  yes,  —  compared  with  3'Ou  !  "  she  answered, 
smiling. 

Madame  Marneffe  was  desperately  eager  to  see  3'oung 
Steinbock  after  hearing  the  baron's  account  of  him  ;  per- 
haps she  desired  to  get  an  art  treasure  out  of  him  while 
the}'  were  still  under  the  same  roof.  Her  curiosity  so 
displeased  the  baron,  however,  that  she  was  forced  to 


Cousin   Bette.  133 

swear  she  would  never  look  at  him  ;  and  3'et,  although 
she  received  a  pretty  little  tea-set  in  old  Sevres  as  a 
reward  for  this  sacrifice,  she  kept  the  wish  at  the  bot- 
tom of  her  heart  as  if  written  in  a  note-book.  So  one 
day  when  she  had  invited  Bette  to  take  coffee  in  her 
bedroom  she  started  the  old  maid  on  the  subjectfiof 
her  lover,  hoping  to  discover  a  way  of  seeing  him  with- 
out risk. 

"Dearest,"  she  said, — for  "dear"  and  "dearest" 
were  the  terms  by  which  they  mutualh'  addressed  each 
other,  —  "  why  have  3'ou  never  presented  3'our  lover  to 
me?     Don't  you  know  that  he  is  now  celebrated?  " 

"Celebrated!  he?" 

"  Why,  people  talk  of  nothing  else  !  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  Lisbeth. 

"  He  is  going  to  make  a  statue  of  my  father,  and  I 
could  be  very  helpful  about  it ;  for  Madame  Montcornet 
cannot  lend  him,  as  I  can,  a  miniature  b}'  Sain,  an  ad- 
mirable portrait  taken  in  1809,  before  the  campaign  of 
Wagram,  and  given  to  my  poor  mother,  —  the  young 
and  handsome  Montcornet,  in  short." 

Sain  and  Augustin  held  the  sceptre  of  miniature  paint- 
ing under  the  empire. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  dear,  that  he  is  to  make  a 
statue?"  demanded  Lisbeth. 

"  Nine  feet  high,  ordered  b}'  the  ministr}'  of  war. 
Bless  me !  where  do  3-ou  keep  3-ourself  that  3'ou  don't 
know  that?  Wh3',  the  government  is  going  to  give  the 
Comte  de  Steinbock  an  atelier  and  a  lodging  at  the 
marble-works  at  the  Gros-Caillou  ;  quite  likel3'  your 
Pole  ma3^  be  made  director  of  them,  —  a  place  worth 
two  thousand  francs  a  vear  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at." 


134  Cousin  Bette, 

"  How  do  3'0ii  happen  to  know  all  that  when  I  know 
nothing?"  said  Lisbeth  at  last,  recovering  from  her 
amazement. 

"  My  dear  little  cousin  Bette,"  said  Madame  Mar- 
neffe,  affection  a  teh^,  "  are  3'ou  capable  of  devoted  friend- 
slRp,  under  all  trials?  Shall  we  be  like  sisters?  Will 
3'ou  swear  to  have  no  secrets  from  me  if  I  have  none 
from  3'Ou? — to  be  m}'  sp}',  just  as  I  '11  be  yours  ?  Above 
all,  will  3'ou  promise  that  you  will  never  sell  me  to  m3' 
husband  nor  to  Monsieur  Hulot,  and  that  3'OU  will  never 
reveal  I  told  you  that  —  " 

Madame  Marneffe  stopped  short  in  her  persuasive 
speech,  for  Bette  actually  frightened  her.  The  face  of 
the  Lorraine  peasant-woman  was  terrible.  Her  keen 
black  e3'es  were  fixed,  like  those  of  tigers ;  the  whole 
countenance  was  such  as  we  attribute  to  a  p3'thoness. 
She  clinched  her  teeth  to  keep  them  from  chattering, 
and  a  horrible  convulsion  shook  her  limbs.  One  claw- 
like hand  was  thrust  beneath  her  cap  to  clutch  the  hair 
and  support  her  head,  suddenl3'  grown  too  heav3'.  She 
was  on  fire.  The  smoke  of  the  conflagration  which  raged 
within  her  seemed  to  issue  from  her  wrinkles  as  though 
they'  were  crevices  torn  open  b3'  volcanic  eruption.  The 
sight  was  awful. 

"Well,  wh3'  do  you  stop?"  she  said,  in  a  hollow  voice. 
*'I  will  be  to  3'ou  all  that  I  was  to  him.  I  would  have 
given  him  my  blood  !  " 

"  Then  3'ou  love  him  ?  " 

"  As  my  son." 

"  Ah  I  "  said  Madame  Marnefle,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
"  if  that  is  how  you  love  him  you  will  soon  have  the 
happiness  of  seeing  him  happy." 


Cousin   Bette.  135 

Lisbeth  replied  by  a  quick  movement  of  her  head,  Hke 
that  of  one  demented. 

"  He  marries  3'our  little  cousin  next  month." 

"Hortense?"  cried  the  old  maid,  rising  to  her  feet 
and  striking  her  forehead. 

"  Good  heavens  !  then  3'ou  do  love  him  ?  that  3'oung 
man  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  MarnefFe. 

"  Valerie,  I  am  bound  to  3'ou  for  life  and  death  hence- 
forth," said  Mademoiselle  Fischer,  "Yes,  if  3'ou  have 
attachments  I  will  regard  them  as  sacred ;  your  vices 
shall  be  virtues  to  me,  for  I  need  them, — 3'es,  3^our 
vices,"  she  repeated. 

"  Are  30U  his  mistress?  *'  cried  Valerie. 

"  No,  I  sought  to  be  his  mother." 

"  Then  I  can  't  understand  it,"  returned  Valerie.  "If 
3'OU  are  neither  jilted  nor  deceived  3'Ou  ought  to  be  ver3' 
glad  to  have  him  make  a  fine  marriage,  —  his  career  is 
made.  However,  in  an3'  case,  the  affair  is  all  over  with 
vou,  3'OU  ma3'  be  sure  of  that.  Your  artist  goes  to 
Madame  Hulot's  every  day  as  soon  as  3'Ou  start  to  dine 
out." 

"  Adeline  I  "  said  Lisbeth  to  herself.  "  Oh,  Adeline  ! 
you  shall  pa3'  dear  for  this.  I  will  make  you  uglier 
than  I !  "        "^ 

"Win',  you  are  as  pale  as  death  I "  cried  Valerie. 
"  Something  is  the  matter  I  Oh,  how  stupid  I  have  been  ! 
Of  course  the  mother  and  daughter  feared  3'OU  would 
put  obstacles  in  the  wa3'  of  the  marriage,  and  that  is 
why  the3'  concealed  it.  But  if  3'ou  don't  live  with  that 
young  man,  my  dearest,  the  whole  affair  is  as  dark  to 
me  as  the  heart  of  my  husband." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know.  30U  I  "  said  Lisbeth, — -"you 


136  Cousin  Bette. 

can't  know  what  this  manoeuvre  is  to  me  !  it  is  mj'  death- 
blow !  Ah,  what  stabs  my  soul  has  borne  !  You  do  not 
know  that  from  the  moment  I  could  first  feel  I  have  been 
sacrificed  to  Adeline.  I  was  clothed  like  a  scullion,  and 
she  as  a  lady.  I  dug  the  garden,  I  peeled  the  vegeta- 
bles, while  her  ten  fingers  never  stirred  unless  to  tie  her 
ribbons.  She  married  the  baron  and  came  here  to  shine 
at  the  Emperor's  court,  and  I  stayed  in  my  village  till 
1809,  waiting  four  years  for  a  suitable  husband.  The 
Hulots  brought  m.e  to  Paris,  but  only  to  make  a  work- 
woman of  me,  and  to  find  clerks,  or  captains  no  better 
than  porters,  to  marry  me.  For  twenty-six  3'ears  I  have 
had  nothing  but  their  leavings ;  and  now,  when  I  pos- 
sessed, as  thej'  tell  in  the  Scriptures,  a  single  pet  lamb 
of  my  own  which  was  all  m}'  joy,  the  rich  Hulots,  with 
flocks  and  herds  of  their  own,  steal  him  from  me,  with 
never  a  word  !  without  a  warning  !  Adeline  has  filched 
jny  happiness  !  Adeline  !  Adeline  !  I  '11  see  you  in  the 
mud,  down  deeper  than  I !  Hortense,  whom  I  loved,  has 
tricked  me !  The  baron  —  no,  it  is  not  possible.  Tell 
me  again,  some  things  ma}'  be. true  —  " 

"  Be  calm,  dearest." 

"  Valerie,  dear  love,  I  will  be  calm,"  said. the  strange 
creature,  sitting  down  again.  '^One  thing  can  quiet 
me,  —  proof,  give  me  proof." 

"  Your  cousin  Hortense  possesses  the  Samson  group, 
and  here  is  a  lithograph  of  it  published  in  a  magazine  ; 
she  spent  all  her  savings  on  it,  and  it  is  the  baron  who, 
in  the  interest  of  his  future  son-in-law,  has  brought 
Comte  Steinbock  into  notice  and  obtained  the  order 
from  the  ministr}'." 

"Water!  —  water!"  moaned  Lisbcth,  after  casting 


Cousin   Bette.  137 

her  e^'es  on  the  Uthograph,  at  the  foot  of  which  wore 
the  words  "  Group  belonoing-  to  Mademoiselle  Hulot 
d'Erv}'."  "Water!  m}-  head  is  burning,  I  am  going- 
mad!" 

Madame  Marneffe  brought  the  water,  and  Bette,  tak- 
ing off  her  cap,  pulled  down  her  black  hair  and  put  her 
head  in  the  basin  which  her  new  friend  held  for  her. 
She  bathed  her  forehead  again  and  again,  and  slowly 
the  inflammation  subsided.  After  this  immersion  her 
self-command  returned. 

*'  Don't  say  a  word  of  all  this,"  she  said  to  Madame 
Marneffe,  wiping  her  hair.  "  See  !  I  am  quite  calm,  I 
can  forget  it  all  and  think  of  something  else." 

"  She  will  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum  to-morrow,  that's 
certain,"  thought  Valerie,  watching  her. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done,"  resumed  Lisbeth.  "You  see, 
my  angel,  I  must  be  silent  and  bow  nw  head  and  march 
to  my  grave  as  the  waters  flow  to  the  sea.  What  could 
such  as  I  do  ?  I  would  gladh'  grind  tliem  to  powdei",  — 
Adeline,  her  daughter,  the  baron  ;  but  what  can  a  poor 
relation  do  against  a  rich  famil3'?  It  is  the  old  story  of 
the  earthen  pot  against  the  iron  pot." 

"Yes,  3'ou  are  right,"  answered  Valerie;  "the  onl}' 
thing  to  be  done  is  to  rake  as  much  ha}'  as  3'OU  can 
into  your  own  manger.     That's  life  as  it  is  in  Paris." 

"And  I  shall  be  dead  before  long,"  cried  Lisbeth, 
"  if  I  lose  the  child  that  I  was  a  mother  to,  and  with 
whom  I  expected  to  spend  m^-  life  —  " 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes  and  she  stopped  short.  This 
emotion  in  a  woman  of  fire  and  brimstone  made  Madame 
Marneffe  shudder. 

'•Well,   I  have  gained  yoii  I "   said  Lisbeth,  taking 


138  Cousin    Bette. 

Valerie's  hand;  "it  is  a  great  comfort  in  the  midst  of 
my  sorrow.  We  will  love  each  other.  Why  need  we 
part?  I  should  never  stand  in  your  way,  for  no  one  will 
ever  love  me  —  me  !  The  men  who  offered  to  marry  me 
onl}'  wanted  m}'  cousin's  influence.  To  be  conscious  of 
the  vigor  to  do  great  things,  to  scale  the  walls  of  para- 
dise, and  to  have  to  spend  it  in  a  struggle  for  bread 
and  water  and  rags  and  a  garret !  —  ah,  it  is  martyr- 
dom !  it  has  withered  me  !  " 

She  paused  abruptly  and  darted  a  black  look  into  the 
depths  of  Madame  Marneffe's  blue  eyes,  which  made 
that  pretty  creature  feel  as  if  a  steel  blade  had  gone 
through  her  bosom. 

"What's  the  good  of  talking?"  said  Bette,  as  if 
blaming  herself.  "Ah!  I  never  said  so  much  as  this 
before  to  any  one.  —  111  deeds  come  home  to  roost," 
she  added  after  a  pause.  "  Yes,  you  are  right;  let's 
sharpen  our  teeth,  and  rake  all  the  hay  we  can  into 
the  manger." 

"That's  wise,"  said  Madame  Marneffe,  who  was 
frightened  by  the  scene,  and  no  longer  remembered 
that  she  had  made  the  remark.  "I  am  sure  it  is,  my 
dear.  Life  is  short,  and  we  must  get  the  most  we 
can  out  of  it,  and  use  others  to  our  own  advantage. 
I  have  come  to  that,  young  as  I  am.  I  was  brought 
np  a  spoiled  child  ;  m}^  father  married  for  ambition, 
and  threw  me  olf  after  making  me  his  idol  and  bring- 
ing me  up  as  if  I  were  the  daughter  of  a  queen  !  Poor 
mamma,  who  fed  me  on  dreams,  died  of  grief  when 
1  married  a  mere  clerk  with  a  salary  of  twelve  hundred 
francs,  —  a  cold,  worn-out  libertine,  thirty-nine  3'ears  old, 
as  corrupt  as  the  galleys,  who  saw  in  me  just  what  you 


Cousin  Bette.  139 

sa}'  others  saw  in  3'ou,  a  means  of  influence.  Well,  T 
have  ended  by  thinking  that  infamous  man  the  best  of 
husbands.  He  prefers  the  vile  creatures  at  the  corners 
of  the  streets,  and  leaves  me  at  liberty-.  If  he  spends 
all  his  salar}'  on  himself  he  never  asks  me  how  I  make 
Tny  money  —  " 

She  stopped  short,  like  a  woman  who  feels  the  rush 
of  confidence  is  carr3ing  her  too  far.  Warned  by  the 
attention  with  which  Lisbeth  listened  to  her,  she  began 
to  think  she  had  better  be  more  sure  of  her  before 
trusting  all  secrets  to  her  keeping. 

"  See,  my  dearest,  what  confidence  I  put  in  you," 
she  said. 

To  which  remark  Bette  responded  by  a  sign  that  was 
completely  reassuring. 

Oaths  taken  b}'  the  ej'es  and  b}*  a  motion  of  the 
head  are  sometimes  more  solemn  and  binding  than 
those  sworn  In  the  courts. 


140  Cousin   Bette. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

TRANSFORMATION    OF    COUSIN    BETTE. 

"I  HAVE  all  the  externals  of  virtue,"  said  Madame 
Marneffe,  laying  her  hand  in  that  of  Lisbeth,  as  if  to 
accept  her  pledge.  "  I  am  a  married  woman  and  m}' 
own  mistress  to  such  a  degree  that  if  Marneffe  has  a 
fancy  to  speak  to  me  in  the  morning  and  finds  m}-  door 
locked  he  goes  awa}"  without  a  word.  He  loves  his 
child  about  as  much  as  I  love  those  marble  urchins 
playing  at  the  feet  of  the  Rivers  in  the  Tuileries.  If  I 
don't  come  home  to  dinner  he  dines  with  my  maid,  — 
for  the  maid  is  devoted  to  him,  —  and  after  dinner  he 
goes  out  and  never  comes  in  till  the  middle  of  the  night. 
Unfortunatebr,  for  the  last  3'ear  I  have  not  had  a  maid, 
which  means  in  plain  language  that  I  am  a  widow.  I 
have  never  had  but  one  love,  one  happiness.  He  was 
a  rich  Brazilian,  who  went  awa}'  a  jear  ago,  —  it  was 
a  great  error.  He  returned  to  Brazil,  intending  to  sell 
his  propert}'  and  come  back  to  live  in  France.  If  he 
ever  returns,  what  will  he  find  me  !  Bah  !  it's  his  fault 
—  not  mine.  Why  did  he  sta}' away  so  long ?  Perhaps 
he  was  shipwrecked,  like  my  virtue." 

"Adieu,  dearest,"  said  Lisbeth,  abruptly;  "  we  will 
never  part.  I  love  3'ou  and  value  you  ;  I  am  3'ours. 
Tlio  baron  teases  me  to  go  and  live  in  3-our  new  house, 


Cousin  Bette.  141 

rue  Yannean.    I  did  not  wish  to,  because  I  saw  the  self- 
interested  motive  of  that  new  benefit." 

"Ah!  you  were  to  watch  me!  Yes,  I  know  that," 
said  Madame  Marneffe. 

"  Of  course  ;  that  was  the  motive  of  his  generosit\'," 
replied  Lisbeth.  "  Half  the  benefits  that  are  bestowed 
in  Paris  are  speculations,  just  as  half  the  ungrateful 
acts  are  deeds  of  vengeance.  People  treat  poor  rela- 
tions as  the}-  do  rats  when  they  give  them  a  scrap  of 
lard.  I  shall  accept  the  baron's  offer,  for  this  house  is 
now  intolerable  to  me.  Ha,  ha  !  3^ou  and  I  have  sense 
enough  to  hold  our  tongues  about  all  that  might  injure 
us,  and  sa}'  whatever  it  is  best  to  sa}' ;  therefore,  let  our 
compact  be  —  friendship,  and  no  indiscretion." 

"So  be  it!"  cried  Madame  Marneffe  joyful!}',  de- 
lighted to  obtain  a  respectable  intimate,  a  confidante,  a 
species  of  virtuous  aunt.  "Do  3'ou  know  that  the  baron 
is  doing  great  things  in  the  rue  Vanneau  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you ! "  said  Lisbeth.  "He  has  spent  thirty 
thousand  francs  on  it  alread}^  I  don't  know  where  he 
got  them,  for  Josepha,  that  Jewish  singer,  bled  him  at 
ever}'  pore.  Oh  !  you  have  fallen  on  your  feet !  "  she 
added.  "  The  baron  would  steal  for  a  woman  who  holds 
his  heart  in  such  satiny  white  hands  as  yours." 

"  Well,"  returned  Madame  Marneffe,  with  the  lib- 
erality of  such  women,  which  really  comes  of  indiffer- 
ence, "take  what  you  like,  dearest,  out  of  this  room 
to  fit  up  your  new  lodging,  —  that  bureau,  that  ward- 
robe with  the  mirror,  the  carpet,  the  hangings,  —  any- 
thing you  like." 

Bette's  eyes  dilated  with  joy ;  she  dared  not  believe 
in  such  a  sift. 


142  Cousin  Bette, 

"You  do  more  for  me  b}^  one  act  than  all  m}'  rich 
relations  in  thirt}'  j'ears,"  she  cried.  "  The}'  never  even 
asked  if  I  had  an}'  furniture.  When  the  baron  paid 
me  his  first  visit,  a  few  weeks  ago,  he  threw  the  glance 
of  a  rich  man  at  my  poverty.  Well,  thank  you,  dear- 
est. I  will  repay  3'ou  some  day ;  3'ou  shall  know  how, 
later." 

Valerie  accompanied  Bette  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
where  the  two  women  kissed  each  other. 

"  She  smells  poor,"  thought  the  prett}*  woman  when 
alone.  "  T  sha'n't  kiss  her  often.  But  it  is  well  to  be 
cautious,  and  keep  on  good  terms  with  her ;  she  can 
be  verj'  useful  to  me,  and  even  help  to  make  my  for- 
tune." 

Like  a  true  Parisian,  Madame  Marneffe  abhorred 
trouble.  She  had  the  indolence  of  a  cat,  which  never 
runs  or  jumps  unless  with  an  object.  To  her  mind  life 
ought  to  be  all  pleasure,  but  pleasure  without  trouble. 
She  loved  flowers,  provided  they  were  brought  to  her. 
She  had  no  idea  of  going  to  the  theatre  without  a  box 
to  herself  and  a  carriage  to  take  her  there.  These  ex- 
travagant tastes  came  from  her  mother,  who  was  kept 
b}'  General  Montcornet,  during  his  visits  to  Paris,  in 
the  utmost  luxury,  and  who  for  twent}'  years  had  seen 
the  world  at  her  feet,  until  —  naturall}'  a  spendthrift  — 
she  had  run  through  her  share  of  a  luxury  which,  after 
the  fall  of  Napoleon,  became  merel}'  traditional.  The 
great  men  of  the  empire  equalled  in  extravagance  the 
great  lords  of  former  times.  Under  the  Restoration, 
the  nobilit}',  remembering  how  the}^  had  been  robbed 
and  ill-used,  became,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  eco- 
nomical, judicious,  and  thrift}-,  —  in  fact,  bourgeois,  and 


Couain  Beite.  143 

no  longer  magnificent.  Since  then,  the  events  of  1830 
only  consummated  tliose  of  1793.  In  future,  France 
may  have  great  names,  but  she  will  never  again  have 
great  families,  unless  certain  political  changes  now  im- 
possible to  conceive  should  arise.  All  things  at  the 
present  day  bear  the  stamp  of  personality.  The  wealth 
of  the  wisest  is  in  the  form  of  annuities.  Famil}'  in  its 
past  meaning  exists  no  longer. 

The  cruel  grasp  of  povert}'  which  gripped  Valerie  on 
the  da}^  when,  as  Marneffe  said,  she  "snared"  Hulot, 
was  the  cause  which  led  that  young  woman  to  make  her 
beaut}"  the  means  of  fortune.  For  some  time  past  she 
had  felt  the  need  of  a  devoted  friend  to  take  the  place 
of  her  mother,  —  one  in  whom  she  could  confide  much 
that  must  be  hidden  from  a  waiting-maid,  and  who 
could  act,  think,  go  and  come  at  her  behest,  —  a  famil- 
iar, in  short,  who  would  agree  to  take  an  unequal  share 
in  their  mutual  life.  She  had  guessed  quite  as  soon  as 
Lisbeth  the  reasons  of  the  baron's  wish  to  create  an  in- 
timacy between  them.  Guided  by  the  unerring  clever- 
ness of  the  Parisian  woman,  who  spends  hours  stretched 
on  a  sofa  turning  the  lantern  of  her  observation  into 
the  dark  corners  of  the  minds,  the  feelings,  and  the  in- 
trigues about  her,  she  had  conceived  the  idea  of  making 
herself  the  accomplice  of  the  spy  who  was  to  be  placed 
over  her.  In  all  probability  her  fatal  indiscretion  in  the 
matter  of  Hortense  and  Wenceslas  was  premeditated ; 
she  had  fathomed  the  true  character  of  the  woman's  in- 
tense nature  mastered  by  an  empty  passion,  and  wished 
to  attach  it  to  herself.  The  conversation  was  like  the 
stone  which  a  traveller  casts  into  a  gulf  to  measure 
its  depth ;  and  Madame  Marnetfe  was  frightened  when 


144  Cousin  Bette, 

she  found  an  lago  and  a  Richard  III.  combined  in  this 
strange  creature,  outwardly  so  powerless,  so  humble, 
and  so  little  to  be  feared. 

For  a  moment  Bette  had  become  her  natural  self; 
for  a  moment  the  savage  Corsican  nature,  bursting  the 
slender  bonds  that  restrained  it,  recovered  its  threat- 
ening attitude,  like  a  tree  escaping  from  the  hands  that 
drag  it  down  as  the}'  gather  its  ripe  fruit. 

The  fulness,  perfection,  and  rapidity  of  conception 
in  virgin  natures  must  strike  an  observer  of  social  life 
with  admiration.  Virginit}',  like  all  other  anomalies, 
has  special  resources  and  an  all-pervading  grandeur. 
Life,  when  its  forces  are  economized,  takes  on  a  qual- 
ity of  resistance  and  of  incalculable  endurance  in  the 
virgin  nature.  The  brain  is  enriched  in  its  entirety'  by 
the  reserve  force  of  its  faculties.  When  chaste  per- 
sons need  to  use  their  bodies  or  their  souls,  whether 
they  are  called  upon  for  thought  or  action,  the}^  are 
conscious  of  a  spring  in  their  muscles,  a  knowledge  in- 
fused into  their  intellects,  a  demoniacal  power,  —  the 
black  magic  of  Will. 

From  this  point  of  view  the  Virgin  Mary,  if  we  con- 
sider her  for  a  moment  as  a  s3'mbol  only,  eclipses 
b}'  her  grandeur  all  the  other,  Hindoo,  Egj-ptian,  and 
Greek,  tj'pes.  Virginit}^  mother  of  great  things,  — 
magna  parens  rerum^  —  holds  the  ke}'  of  higher  worlds 
in  her  white  fingers  ;  and  this  grand  and  lofty  excep- 
tion is  worth}'  of  the  honor  which  the  Church  bestows 
upon  her. 

For  a  moment,  then,  cousin  Bette  became  the  red 
Indian,  whose  dissimulation  is  impenetrable,  whose  pur- 
suit  cannot  be   escaped,  whose  rapid  judgments   are 


Cous'm   Bette.  145 

based  on  the  unerring  perfection  of  his  organs.  She 
was  Hatred  and  Vengeance  personified,  uncompromising 
and  without  quarter,  as  they  are  in  Ital}',  in  Spain, 
and  in  the  East.  These  two  passions,  instinct  with 
love  and  friendship  pushed  to  tlieir  utmost  expression, 
are  known  onl}-  in  tlie  lands  wliich  the  sun  irradiates. 
Lisbeth,  however,  was  a  daughter  of  Lorraine,  —  in 
other  words,  born  for  intrigue  and  dissimulation. 

She  did  not  play  the  latter  part  of  her  role  out  of 
her  own  head,  as  we  shall  see.  Profoundly  ignorant 
of  the  world  about  her,  she  supposed  that  jails  were 
what  children  imagine  them,  and  she  confounded  sol- 
itar}'  confinement  with  ordinary  imprisonment. 

When  she  left  Madame  Marneffe  she  went  straight 
to  Monsieur  Rivet,  and  found  him  in  his  office. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Rivet,"  she  said,  after  slipping  the 
bolt  of  his  door,  "  3'ou  were  right.  Poles  —  scoundrels! 
men  without  faith  or  decency ! " 

"  Men  who  want  to  set  Europe  on  fire,"  said  the 
pacific  Rivet;  "who  want  to  ruin  commerce  and  mer- 
chants for  the  sake  of  a  country'  which  the}'  tell  me  is 
full  of  bogs  and  Jews,  not  to  speak  of  Cossacks  and 
serfs,  —  species  of  wild  beasts  falsel}'  classed  as  human 
beings.  Those  Poles  misunderstand  the  age.  We  are 
no  longer  barbarians.  War,  my  dear  lady,  is  a  thing 
of  the  past ;  it  went  out  with  the  kings.  Our  period  is 
the  triumpli  of  commerce,  of  the  industr}'  and  sagacity 
which  created  Holland.  Yes,"  he  continued,  working 
himself  up,  "this  is  an  epoch  when  the  masses  will 
obtain  all  by  the  legal  development  of  their  liberties, 
by  the  padfic  working  of  constitutional  institutions. 
That 's  what  these   Poles  ignore  and  I  hope  —     But 

10 


IIQ  Cousin  Bette. 

what  were  you  saying,  my  clear?"  he  added,  intcrrnpt- 
ing  himself  as  he  saw  by  his  workwoman's  manner  that 
the  science  of  politics  was  not  in  her  mind. 

"  Here  are  those  papers,"  returned  Bette.  "  If  I  don't 
mean  to  lose  my  three  thousand  two  hundred  and  ten 
francs,  I  must  put  that  scoundrel  in  prison." 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  oracle  of  the  quartier  Saint- 
Denis. 

The  establishment  of  Rivet,  successor  of  Pons  Broth- 
ers, was  still  in  the  rue  des  Mauvaises-Paroles,  in  tlie 
old  Langeais  mansion,  built  by  the  illustrious  family  of 
that  name  in  the  days  when  the  great  lords  gathered 
around  the  Louvre. 

''  And  for  that  reason  I  have  been  blessing  you  as  I 
came  along."  answered  Lisbeth. 

"  If  he  suspects  nothing,  you  can  put  him  under 
lock  and  key  by  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  said  the 
judge,  consulting  his  almanac  as  to  the  hour  of  sun- 
rise ;  ''  but  not  until  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  he  added, 
"  because  you  can't  imprison  a  man  v/ithout  notifying 
him  that  a  writ  is  to  be  issued  for  his  arrest. 

"  What  a  stupid  law  !  "  said  Bette.  "  Of  course  the 
debtor  runs  away." 

"'He  has  the  right  to,"  repUed  the  judge,  smihng ; 
"  and  therefore  the  best  way  is  —  " 

"As  for  that,  I'll  take  the  notification  to  him  my- 
self," said  Bette,  interrupting  him,  "  and  tell  him  I  have 
been  forced  to  borrow  money,  and  that  the  lender  in- 
sists on  this  formality.  I  know  m}'  man.  He  won't  even 
unfold  the  paper ;  he  '11  light  his  pipe  with  it." 

*'  Ha !  pretty  good,  pretty  good,  Mademoiselle  Fischer ! 
Well,  take  it  easy;  the  affair  is  as  good  as  settled.    But 


Cousin  Bette.  HI 

stop  one  moment ;  it  is  n't  enough  to  lock  up  a  man. 
People  don't  indulge  in  that  judicial  luxury  except  to 
get  back  their  mone^'.    Who  is  to  pay  3'ou?" 

''  Those  who  pay  him." 

''Ah,  3'es  ;  I  forgot  that  the  ministry  of  war  has  or- 
dered a  monument  for  one  of  our  clients.  This  house 
has  furnished  man}'  a  uniform  to  General  Montcornet, — 
he  blackened  them  so  fast  in  cannon-smoke.  Ah,  what 
a  brave  fellow  he  was  !  —  and  he  paid  rectaP 

A  marshal  of  France  may  have  saved  his  emperor 
and  his  country,  but  his  highest  praise  from  the  lips  of 
commerce  will  ever  be  that  he  "  paid  rectal 

"  Well,  then,  Saturday,  Monsieur  Rivet,  you  can  be 
read}'  to  take  him.  Bv  the  way,  I  am  leaving  the  rue 
du  Doyenne  to  live  in  the  rue  Vanneau." 

"  You  are  right.  I  was  always  sorr}'  to  see  3'ou  in 
that  hole  of  a  place,  which,  in  spite  of  my  repugnance 
to  everything  that  looks  like  opposition,  I  make  bold 
to  sa}'  disgraces  —  3x8,  disgraces  the  Louvre  and  the 
place  du  Carrousel.  I  worship  Louis  Philippe  ;  he  is 
m3'  idol,  —  the  august  and  perfect  representative  of  the 
class  on  which  he  has  founded  his  d3'nast3' ;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  what  he  did  for  gold  lace  by  re-establishing 
the  National  Guard." 

''  When  I  hear  you  talk  like  that,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  I 
wonder  they  have  never  made  you  a  deputy." 

"  They  fear  my  devotion  to  the  dynasty,"  replied 
Rivet.  "  M3'  political  enemies  are  those  of  the  king. 
Ah,  what  a  noble  nature !  what  a  fine  famil3' !  l\\ 
short,"  he  added,  continuing  his  declamation,  "he  is 
m3^  ideal  of  manners  and  customs,  econom3',  morals, 
everything!     But  the  completion  of  the  Louvre  is  one 


148  Cousin   Bette. 

of  the  conditions  on  which  we  gave  him  his  crown  ;  and 
I  do  admit  that  the  civil  hst,  to  which  wc  put  no  fixed 
limit,  has  left  the  heart  of  Paris  in  a  most  distressing 
condition.  It  is  precisely  because  I  am  myself  a  jtiste 
milieu  that  I  desire  to  see  the  middle  of  Paris  in  a  bet- 
ter state.  That  quarter  makes  me  shudder.  You  might 
be  murdered  there  any  da}'.  —  Well,  so  your  Monsieur 
Crevel  is  appointed  major  of  his  legion?  I  hope  we 
shall  have  the  furnishing  of  his  epaulets." 

"  I  dine  there  to-da3%  and  I  will  send  him  to  j'ou." 
Lisbeth  believed  she  could  still  hold  the  exile  within 
her  clutches  b}'  cutting  off  his  communications  with  the 
outer  world.  If  he  no  longer  produced  works  of  art  he 
would  be  forgotten,  like  a  man  buried  in  a  cave  where 
she  alone  could  go  and  see  him.  Thus  thinking,  she 
enjoyed  two  days'  happiness  in  the  hope  and  expecta- 
tion of  dealing  the  baroness  and  Hortense  a  fatal  blow. 
To  reach  the  liouse  of  Monsieur  Crevel,  which  was 
in  the  rue  des  Saussaj'es,  she  went  by  way  of  the  pont 
du  Carrousel,  the  quai  Voltaire,  the  quai  dOrsay,  the 
rue  Bellechasse,  the  rue  de  lUniversite,  the  pont  de 
la  Concorde,  and  the  avenue  Marigny.  This  illogical 
route  was  dictated  b}'  the  logic  of  the  passions,  always 
extremely  antagonistic  to  legs.  While  Bette  was  going 
along  the  quays  she  walked  slowlj^  with  her  ej'es  fixed 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  Seine.  Her  reasonings  were 
justified.  She  had  left  W^enceslas  dressing  himself,  and 
slie  was  sure  that  as  soon  as  he  felt  he  was  safe  from 
observation  he  would  take  the  shortest  way  to  the 
Hulots'.  In  fact,  just  as  she  was  lingering  along  h\ 
the  })arapet  of  the  quai  Voltaire,  gazing  eagerly  across 
the  river,  she  spied  the  artist  as  he  came  through  the 


Cousin  Bette,  149 

gatewa}'  of  the  Tuileries  to  cross  by  the  pout  Royal. 
There  she  came  up  with  the  faithless  one,  and  followed 
him  unseen  —  for  lovers  seldom  look  back  —  to  Madame 
Hulot's  house,  where  she  saw  him  enter  like  one  in  the 
habit  of  doing  so. 

This  final  proof,  confirming  as  it  did  Madame  Mar- 
neflje's  revelations,  drove  Lisbeth  beside  herself.  She 
reached  Crevel's  house  in  the  state  of  mental  exas- 
peration which  leads  to  murder,  and  found  the  newl}' 
appointed  major  waiting  for  her  and  for  his  children, 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Hulot  junior. 

Celestin  Crevel  is  so  artless  and  true  a  representative 
of  the  Parisian  parvenu  that  it  is  scarcely  proper  to 
enter  the  house  of  this  fortunate  successor  of  Cesar 
Birotteau  without  an  introduction.  Celestin  Crevel  is 
indeed  a  world  in  himself,  and  as  such  he  deserves, 
more  than  Rivet,  the  honor  of  having  his  portrait 
painted,  not  to  speak  of  his  importance  in  this  domes- 
tic drama. 


150  Cousin   Bette, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    LIFE    AND    OPINIONS    OF   MONSIEUR    CREVEL. 

Have  yon  ever  remarked  how  in  childhood,  or  at 
the  beginning  of  social  life,  we  create  for  ourselves, 
often  unknowingl}',  a  model  to  be  followed?  The  clerk 
of  a  bank  when  he  enters  his  master's  salon  dreams  of 
possessing  one  like  it.  If  he  makes  his  fortune  twenty 
3'ears  later,  it  is  not  the  luxury  of  the  time  that  he  will 
set  up  in  his  home,  but  the  old-fashioned  luxury  that 
formerl}'  fascinated  him.  No  one  has  au}^  conception 
of  the  absurdities  due  to  this  retrospective  envy,  just 
as  we  are  ignorant  of  the  follies  due  to  secret  rivalries, 
which  drive  men  to  imitate  a  type  they  make  for  them- 
selves and  to  spend  their  vitalitj'  in  becoming  shadows. 
Crevel  was  assistant-mayor  because  his  predecessor  had 
been  one  ;  he  was  major  of  his  legion  because  he  envied 
Birotteau's  epaulets.  Struck  b}'  the  marvellous  improve- 
ments effected  by  the  architect  Grindot  at  the  moment 
wdien  the  former  master  of  the  "Queen  of  Roses"  was 
on  the  top  of  the  wheel,  Crevel  "didn't  count  his  pen- 
nies," as  he  said,  w^hen  it  was  a  question  of  furnishing 
his  apartment.  He  had  gone,  e^'es  shut  and  purse  open, 
to  Grindot,  an  architect  who  b}'  that  time  was  absolutely 
forgotten.  It  is  impossible  to  know  how  long  extinct 
glory  survives  through  such  belated  admirations. 

Grindot  produced  for  the  thousandth  time  his  white 
and  gold  salon  hung  with  red  damask.     His  favorite 


Cousin   Bette.  1 51 

ebonized  woods,  carved,  as  the  carvings  of  his  day  were 
done,  without  delicac}',  were  now,  since  the  exposition 
of  the  products  of  industr}',  reduced  to  be  the  pride  of 
provincial  households.  The  candelabras,  sconces,  fen- 
ders, chandeUers,  clocks,  etc.,  belonged  to  a  tasteless 
and  barren  period.  A  round  table,  stationed  in  the 
middle  of  the  salon,  had  a  marble  top  inlaid  with 
scraps  of  all  the  Italian  and  antique  marbles  to  be 
had  in  Rome,  where  they  manufacture  these  minera- 
logical  slabs  (not  unlike  the  pattern  sheets  of  tailors), 
which  were  the  admiration  of  the  bourgeoisie  of  Crevel's 
circle.  Portraits  of  the  late  Madame  Crevel,  Crevel 
himself,  his  daughter  and  son  in-law,  b}'  Pierre  Gras- 
sou,  a  painter  of  renown  among  Crevel's  class  of  people 
(and  to  whom  the  ex-perfumer  owed  the  absurdity  of  his 
Byronic  attitude),  decorated  the  walls  where  they  were 
Imng  in  pairs.  Their  frames,  which  cost  a  thousand 
francs  each,  were  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  costly 
decorations  in  the  cafe  style,  which  would  have  made 
a  true  artist  wince. 

Wealth  lias  never  lost  the  slightest  chance  to  prove 
its  stupidity.  We  might  have  had  ten  Venices  in  Paris 
by  this  time  if  retired  merchants  had  possessed  that  in- 
stinct for  great  things  which  distinguislies  the  Italians. 
It  is  onl}'  lately  that  a  Milanese  shop-keeper  bequeathed 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  the  Duomo  for  the  regild- 
ing  of  the  colossal  figure  of  the  Virgin  which  surmounts 
the  cupola.  Canova,  in  his  will,  orders  his  brother  to 
build  a  church  costing  four  millions,  and  his  brother 
adds  something  of  his  own.  A  Parisian  bourgeois  (and 
the3'  all,  like  Rivet,  have  a  love  for  their  cit}')  would 
never  think  of  supplying  the  bells  which  have  alwa3'S 


152  Cousin  Bette. 

been  lacking  to  the  towers  of  Notre-Darae.  Consider 
the  large  sums  received  b}^  the  government  from  estates 
to  which  there  are  no  heirs.  Our  rulers  might  com- 
plete the  embellishment  of  Paris  with  the  money's  spent 
during  the  last  fifteen  years,  b}'  men  like  Crevel,  on  such 
nonsense  as  stucco  mouldings,  gilt  potter}',  and  sham 
statues. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  salon  was  a  ver}'  magnifi- 
cent stud}^  furnished  with  tables  and  cabinets  done  in 
imitation  of  Boule. 

The  bedroom,  hung  with  chintz,  also  opened  into  the 
salon.  Mahogan}'  in  all  its  glory  reigned  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  paintings  of  Swiss  views,  richly  framed, 
adorned  the  panels  of  the  wall.  Old  Crevel,  who  indulged 
a  dream  of  travelling  in  Switzerland,  liked  to  possess 
that  land  in  pictures  in  preparation  for  the  happy  mo- 
ment when  he  should  see  it  in  realit3\ 

Crevel,  assistant-ma^'or  and  captain  of  the  National 
Guard,  decorated  with  the  Legion  of  honor,  had,  as  we 
have  seen,  reproduced  all  the  grandeurs  of  his  unfor- 
tunate predecessor.  Just  where  the  one  had  fallen  un- 
der the  Restoration,  this  other,  totall}^  insignificant,  had 
risen,  —  not  b}'  an}"  strange  freak  of  fortune,  but  by 
force  of  circumstances.  In  revolutions,  as  in  storms  at 
sea,  treasures  go  to  the  bottom,  the  flimsier  and  less  val- 
uable matters  float.  Cesar  Birotteau,  royalist,  in  favor 
at  court,  and  exciting  env}',  became  an  object  of  attack 
to  the  middle-class  opposition ;  whereas  his  successor, 
Crevel,  was  the  embodiment  of  the  same  middle  class 
triumphant. 

The  ex-perfumer's  apartment,  renting  for  three  thou- 
sand francs  and  fairl}'  bursting  with  the  splendid  vulgar 


Cousin   Bette.  15 


Q 


things  which  mone}'  buys,  was  on  the  first  floor  of  an  old 
mansion  standing  between  court3'ard  and  garden.  All 
within  was  kept  in  as  perfect  order  as  the  coleoptera  of 
an  entomologist,  for  Crevel  seldom  lived  there. 

This  sumptuous  abode  was  the  legal  domicile  of  the 
ambitious  major.  The  service  was  performed  b}'  a  cook 
and  a  valet  only.  Crevel  hired  two  extra  servants  and 
had  the  dinner  sent  in  by  Chevet  when  he  feasted  his 
political  friends  whom  he  wanted  to  dazzle,  or  when- 
ever he  entertained  his  family.  His  actual  existence, 
formerly  passed  with  Mademoiselle  Heloise  Brisetout  in 
the  rue  Notre-Dame-de-Lorette,  was  now  transferred, 
as  we  have  seen,  to  the  rue  Cauchat.  Every  morning 
he  retired  merchant  (all  retired  shop-keepers  call  them- 
selves retired  merchants)  spent  two  hours  in  the  rue 
des  Saussayes  to  look  after  his  business,  and  gave  the 
rest  of  his  time  to  Zaire,  greatl}'  to  Zaire's  annoyance. 
Orosmane-Crevel  had  made  a  settled  bargain  with 
Mademoiselle  Heloise ;  she  owed  him  five  hundred 
francs'  worth  of  happiness  per  month,  without  credit. 
Besides  this,  Crevel  paid  for  his  dinner  and  all  ex- 
tras. This  primary  contract  —  he  made  her  besides 
a  number  of  presents  —  seemed  economical  to  the  ex- 
lover  of  the  now  celebrated  Josepha.  He  remarked  to 
his  friends  apropos  of  the  arrangement,  that  it  was  bet- 
ter to  hire  a  carriage  at  so  much  a  month  than  to  keep 
a  stable  of  your  own.  Nevertheless,  if  we  remember 
the  speech  of  the  porter  of  the  rue  Cauchat  to  Baron 
Hulot,  we  may  believe  that  Crevel  did  not  escape  the 
costs  of  groom  and  coachman. 

Crevel  had,  as  we  have  seen,  turned  his  extreme 
love  for  his  daughter  to  the  profit  of  his  vices.     The 


154  Cousin  Bette. 

immorality  of  liis  life  was  justified  b}'  the  highest  fam- 
ily reasons,  and  the  ex-perfumer  actually  covered  such 
an  existence  with  a  varnish  of  worth}'  motives.  He 
posed  for  a  man  of  broad  views,  generous,  without 
pettiness  of  ideas,  a  lord  in  small  matters,  —  and  all 
for  the  trifling  sum  of  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  francs 
a  month.  At  the  Bourse  Crevel  was  held  to  be  supe- 
rior to  his  epoch,  and  all  the  more  because  he  was  a 
bo7i  viva7it. 

In  all  this  Crevel  felt  he  had  gone  ahead  of  his 
predecessor  Birotteau  b}'  a  hundred  strides. 

"Well,"  he  said  sharph',  as  soon  as  he  saw  Bette, 
*'so  you  are  going  to  marr}'  Mademoiselle  Hulot  to  a 
young  count  3'ou  have  been  bringing  up  for  her  under 
your  petticoat?" 

"  It  seems  to  anno}'  3'ou/*  answered  Lisbeth,  fixing 
her  penetrating  ej^es  on  Crevel.  "What  interest  have 
3'ou  in  opposing  my  cousin's  marriage  ?  I  am  told  you 
prevented  her  marrying  the  son  of  Monsieur  Lebas." 

"You  are  a  good  girl,  and  very  discreet,"  said  Cre- 
vel. "Now  do  3^ou  suppose  I  will  ever  forgive  old 
Hulot  for  the  crime  of  depriving  me  of  Josepha?  and 
above  all,  for  having  made  an  honest  girl,  whom  I 
meant  to  marry  in  mj'  old  age,  a  worthless  hussy,  a 
stage-player,  an  opera  singer  ?     Never  !  never  !  " 

*•  He  's  a  good  fellow,  though,"  said  Bette. 

"  Good-natured,  —  ver}'  good-natured,  —  too  good- 
natured,"  returned  Crevel.  "  I  don't  wish  him  ill;  but 
I  mean  to  have  my  revenge,  and  I  shall  take  it.  That 's 
a  fixed  idea  in  m^'  mind." 

"Is  it  on  that  account  that  you  never  come  to  see 
Madame  Hulot  now?" 


Cousin   Bette.  155 

*'  Perhaps  it  is." 

"Ha!  ha!  were  3-011  paying  court  to  m}'  cousin?" 
said  Lisbeth,  smiling.     ''I  thought  so." 

"  She  treated  me  like  a  dog,  —  worse  than  a  dog,  — 
like  a  lacke}',  or,  I  might  sa}',  a  political  prisoner.  But 
I  shall  succeed,"  he  said,  closing  his  fist  and  striking 
his  brow  with  it. 

"  Poor  man!  It  will  be  rather  hard  if  he  finds  his 
wife  defrauding  him,  now  that  his  mistress  has  packed 
him  off." 

"  Josepha  !  "  cried  Crevel.  "  Has  Josepha  left  him? 
deserted  him?  sent  him  about  his  business?  Bravo, 
Josepha  !  Ah,  Josepha,  you  've  avenged  me  !  I  '11 
send  you  a  pearl  for  each  ear,  my  ex-darling !  But  I 
don't  know  anything  about  all  this,  because,  after  see- 
ing 3-0U  that  day  when  Adeline  sent  for  me,  I  went  to 
stay  with  my  friend  Lebas  at  Corbeil,  and  I  have  only 
just  returned.  Heloise  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  get 
me  into  the  countr}-.  I  knew  the  meaning  of  her  tricks ; 
she  wanted  to  have  a  house-warming  in  the  rue  Cau- 
chat  with  all  those  artists  and  vagabonds  and  literar}^ 
fellows,  and  without  me.  I  've  been  tricked  ;  but  I  '11 
forgive  it,  for  Heloise  is  so  amusing.  She  's  an  embr3'0 
Dejazet.  Is  n't  she  funny  ?  Here  's  a  note  I  found  here 
on  m3'  return  :  — 

Old  Fellow,  —  I  have  set  up  my  tent  in  the  rue  Cauchat, 
and  friends  have  made  it  as  good  as  new,  —  I  took  care  of 
that.  All  's  well.  Come  when  you  like.  Hagar  awaits  her 
Abraham. 

Heloise  will  tell  me  the  news.    She  has  got  her  Bohemia 
at  her  fingers'  ends." 


156  Cousin  Bette. 

"  But  in}'  cousin  took  Josepha's  treachery  very  well," 
said  Bette. 

''  Not  possible?  "  exclaimed  Crevel,  stopping  short  in 
his  walk,  which  resembled  the  swing  of  a  pendulum. 

"  Monsieur  Hulot  is  no  longer  3'oung,"  observed  Bette, 
malicioush'. 

"  I  know  him.  We  are  all  alike  under  certain  circum- 
stances. Hulot  can't  do  without  an  attachment.  He  is 
even  capable  of  returning  to  his  wife,"  muttered  Cre- 
vel to  himself ;  ' '  she  'd  be  a  novelt}^  to  him  ;  and  then 
—  adieu  to  my  vengeance.  Mademoiselle  Fischer,  you 
could  —  ah,  3^ou  are  laughing!    You  suspect  something! " 

"  I  am  laughing  at  the  ideas  in  3'our  mind,"  answered 
Lisbeth.  "Yes,  m^'  cousin  is  still  beautiful  enough  to 
Inspire  a  passion.  I  should  love  her  m3'self  if  I  were 
a  man." 

"  He  who  has  drunk  will  drink!"  cried  Crevel,  sen- 
tentious]3\  "  You  are  not  telHng  me  the  whole  truth. 
The  baron  has  found  a  consolation." 

Lisbeth  nodded  her  head  in  the  affirmative. 

"Ah  !  he  's  lucky  if  he  can  replace  Josepha  in  a  da}'," 
continued  Crevel,  bitterly.  "But  I'm  not  surprised; 
he  told  me  one  night  at  supper  that  when  he  was 
3'oung  he  always  kept  three  mistresses,  —  the  one  he 
was  thinking  of  leaving,  the  reigning  deit}',  and  a  third 
to  whom  he  paid  court  with  an  eye  to  the  future.  Ah  ! 
he's  lucky  to  be  a  handsome  man.  Cousin  Bette,  I'd 
give  —  that  is,  I  'd  gladly  spend  —  fift}'  thousand  francs 
to  get  hold  of  that  fine  gentleman's  mistress,  and  show 
him  that  an  old  fellow  with  a  pot-belly  and  a  bald 
head  won't  let  his  lady  be  whistled  awa}^  from  him 
with  impunit}'." 


Cousifi  Bette.  157 

"  M}'  situ.ition,"  answered  Bette,  "obliges  me  to  hear 
all  and  know  nothing.  You  can  talk  to  me  without 
fear ;  I  never  repeat  a  word  of  what  people  confide  in 
me.  Why  do  you  want  me  to  break  that  rule?  Ko 
one  would  ever  trust  me  again." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Crevel ;  "you  are  the  pearl  of 
old  maids.  But  there  are  such  things  as  exceptions. 
Tell  me,  doesn't  the  famil}^  give  3'ou  an  income?" 

"  M}'  pride,"  she  said,  "  would  not  allow  me  to  live 
at  an}'  one's  expense." 

"Ah!  if  you  would  only  help  me  to  revenge  my- 
self," continued  the  ex-perfumer,  "  I  'd  put  ten  thou- 
sand francs  into  an  annuit}'  for  you.  Cousin,  tell  me 
who  has  taken  Josepha's  place,  and  you  shall  have 
enough  to  pay  your  rent,  your  little  breakfast,  and 
the  good  coffee  you  are  so  fond  of ;  3'Ou  shall  buy 
pure  Mocha,  if  3-ou  like, — hey?  Ah!  pure  Mocha  is 
so  nice  ! " 

"  I  don't  care  so  much  for  the  ten  thonsand  francs 
—  though  it  would  give  me  nearl}'  five  hundred  francs 
a  year  —  as  I  do  for  absolute  secrecy,"  said  Lisbeth. 
"  Don't  you  see,  m}^  dear  Monsieur  Crevel,  the  baron 
is  very  good  to  me?     He  is  going  to  pay  my  rent." 

"  Yes,  and  for  how  long,  do  3'OU  suppose?  The  idea 
of  counting  on  that!"  cried  Crevel.  "Where  will  he 
get  the  money?" 

"  That  I  don't  know.  But  he  is  spending  at  least 
thirty  thousand  francs  in  furnishing  a  house  for  the 
lady!" 

"A  lady  !  What,  a  woman  in  society?  The  scamp, 
what  luck  !    There  's  no  one  can  equal  him  for  that !  " 

"A  married  woman,  very  well-bred,"  remarked  Bette. 


158  Cousin   Bette. 

"Really?"  cried  Crevel,  opening  his  63-68  at  the  magic 
words  "well-bred." 

"Yes,"  answered  Bette;  "full  of  talent,  musical, 
twent^'-three  years  old,  with  a  pretty,  artless  face,  a 
dazzling  skin,  the  teeth  of  a  young  pupp}',  eyes  like 
stars,  a  splendid  brow,  and  feet  —  such  little  feet  I 
never  saw  the  like  !  " 

"  And  her  ears?  "  cried  Crevel,  sharply  stimulated  hy 
this  catalogue  of  beauties. 

"Ears  fit  to  model." 

"Little  hands?" 

"I  tell  you  in  one  word  that  she's  a  jewel  of  a 
woman  ;  virtuous,  modest,  full  of  delicacy  —  a  fine  na- 
ture, an  angel,  distinguished  in  every  way.  Her  father 
was  a  marshal  of  France." 

"  Marshal  of  France  !  "  shouted  Crevel,  giving  a  tre- 
mendous jump  ;  "  Good  God  I  damnation  !  in  the  name 
of  fortune  !  Oh,  the  rascal!  —  Excuse  me,  cousin,  I 
am  going  QV'd7.y.  I'd  give  a  hundred  thousand  francs, 
I  do  believe  —  " 

"But  I  tell  you  she  is  an  honest  woman,  a  virtuous 
woman  ;  the  baron  has  managed  matters  very  well." 

"  He  has  n't  a  penu}'." 

"  There's  a  husband  he  has  advanced." 

"Advanced  where?"  cried  Crevel,  with  a  sharp  laugh. 

"In  his  oflfice  alread}^ ;  and  before  long,  if  he  is 
obliging,  he  will  get  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  honor." 

"Government  ought  to  take  care  whom  the}^  deco- 
rate, and  not  waste  the  cross  on  everybody,"  said  Cre- 
vel, with  an  air  of  political  disgust.  "What  is  there 
in  that  old  cur,  I  should  like  to  know?  I  think  I'm 
as  good  as  he,"  he  continued,  looking  in  a  mirror  and 


Cousin   Bette.  150 

assuming  his  tittitncle  ;  '' Heloise  often  tells  me  (at  a 
moment  when  women  do  not  lie)  that  I  am  —  won- 
derful." 

"Oh!"  said  Bette,  "women  like  stout  men;  the>^ 
are  almost  alwa3'S  kind.  Between  you  and  the  baron 
I  should  choose  3'ou.  Monsieur  Hulot  is  witt}',  and  he 
is  a  fine  man  with  a  good  figure ;  but  you,  30U  are 
solid  ;  and  then  —  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth  —  you 
seem  to  me  the  greater  scamp  of  the  two — " 

"It  is  surprising  how  all  women,  even  the  pious 
ones,  like  that  kind  of  man  the  best,"  cried  Crevel, 
catchino;  Bette  round  the  waist  in  his  delisjht. 

"  The  difficult}'  in  this  matter  doesn't  lie  there,"  said 
Bette.  "  You  can  easil}'  see  that  a  woman  with  so 
man}'  advantages  would  n't  be  unfaithful  to  her  pro- 
tector for  a  trifle  :  it  would  cost  you  more  than  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  for  the  lady  expects  her  husband 
to  be  at  the  head  of  a  bureau  in  a  couple  of  years.  It 
was  poverty  that  drove  this  poor  little  angel  into  the 
gulf. " 

Crevel  walked  up  and  down  the  salon  excitedly. 
"  Does  he  love  the  woman  ?  "  he  asked  presently,  when 
his  desires,  lashed  by  Lisbeth,  had  turned  into  a  spe- 
cies of  fury. 

"  Judge  for  yourself,"  answered  the  old  maid  ;  "  I  don't 
think  he  has  obtained — that^'^  clicking  her  thumbnail 
against  one  of  her  enormous  white  teeth,  "  and  yet  he 
has  given  her  ten  thousand  francs'  worth  of  presents." 

"  Oh  !  what  a  joke  it  would  be,"  cried  Crevel,  "  if  I 
had  her  first  1 " 

"  Goodness  !  I  am  very  wrong  to  tell  you  these  tales," 
said  Lisbeth,  with  a  show  of  remorse. 


160  Cousin  Bette. 

"  No;  I  am  resolved  to  humiliate  your  family.  To- 
morrow I  '11  buy  3'ou  an  annuity  of  six  hundred  francs 
in  the  Funds,  but  you  must  tell  me  all  —  the  name  and 
residence  of  the  Dulcinea.  I  '11  own  to  3'ou  that  I 
never  had  a  well-bred  woman,  and  the  height  of  m\" 
ambition  is  to  know  one.  The  houris  of  Mohammed  are 
nothing  in  comparison  with  what  I  suppose  a  woman  of 
the  world  to  be.  In  short,  she  is  my  ideal,  my  folly  — 
so  great  that  Madame  Ilulot  could  never  seem  fift}'  3'ears 
old  to  me,"  he  said,  unaware  of  the  keen  intellect  to 
which  he  was  speaking.  "  Come,  my  dear  Lisbeth,  I  am 
ready  to  sacrifice  one  hundred,  two  hundred  thousand 
francs —  Hush,  here  are  ray  children,  I  see  them  cross- 
ing the  courtyard.  I  give  3'oa  m}^  word  that  no  one 
shall  ever  know  what  you  tell  me  ;  in  fact,  I  don't  want 
you  to  lose  the  baron's  confidence,  on  the  contrar}^  He 
must  love  the  woman  —  that  old  grann}' !  " 

"  He  is  crazy  about  her,"  replied  Bette.  "  He  did  not 
know  where  to  find  fort}'  thousand  francs  for  his  daugh- 
ter's dot,  but  he  has  alreadj^  unearthed  them  for  this  new 
passion." 

"  And  do  3'ou  think  she  loves  him?"  asked  Crevel. 

"  What !  at  his  age?  "  returned  Bette. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  goose  I  am  ! "  cried  Crevel,  "  I,  who  let 
Heloise  have  an  artist,  just  as  Henry  IV.  allowed  Belle- 
garde  to  Gabrielle  !  Old  age  !  old  age  !  —  Good  even- 
ing, Celestine  ;  how  are  3'ou,  my  darling,  you  and  your 
little  one?  Ah,  here  he  is!  I  declare,  he  is  going  to 
look  like  me.  Good  evening,  Hulot ;  are  things  going 
on  well?  I  hear  there's  to  be  a  marriage  in  the  famil}' 
before  long." 

Celestine  and  her  husband  made  him  a  sign  to  be  silent 


Cousin  Bette.  161 

before  Bette,  and  the  daughter  answered  boldly,  "  A 
marriage?  whose?"  Crevel  at  once  assumed  a  si}'  air 
as  if  to  show  that  he  repaired  his  indiscretion. 

'^Why,  that  of  Hortense,"  he  said;  "though  it  is 
not  quite  settled.  I  have  just  been  staying  with  Lebas, 
and  there  was  some  little  talk  of  Mademoiselle  Popinot 
for  his  son  —     Come,  dinner  is  ready." 


11 


162  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

LAST   ATTEMPT    OF    CALIBAN    OVER   ARIEL. 

By  seven  o'clock  Lisbeth  was  on  her  wa}'  home  in 
an  omnibus,  for  she  longed  to  see  Wenceslas,  who,  she 
now  knew,  had  duped  her  for  the  last  three  weeks,  and 
for  whom  she  was  bringing  as  usual  a  bag  full  of  fruit, 
selected  by  Crevel  himself,  whose  affection  for  his  cousin 
had  suddenl\"  redoubled.  She  ran  up  to  the  garret  with 
a  rapidit}'  that  took  her  breath  awaj',  and  found  the 
artist  emplo3'ed  in  finishing  the  decoration  of  a  casket 
which  he  intended  to  offer  to  his  dear  Hortense.  The 
edge  of  the  cover  was  twined  with  hortensias,  and  little 
Cupids  were  placing  among  the  foliage.  To  defray  the 
cost  of  materials,  the  poor  lover  had  carved  two  tall 
candelabra  for  Florent  and  Chanor,  resigning  to  those 
dealers  all  rights  in  the  beautiful  work. 

"  You  have  been  working  too  hard  for  the  last  few 
da3's,  m\^  dear  friend,"  said  Lisbeth,  wiping  his  damp 
brow  and  kissing  it.  "Such  exertion  is  dangerous  in 
the  month  of  August.  Your  health  will  suffer.  See, 
here  are  some  peaches  and  plums  I  have  brought  j^ou 
from  old  Crevel's.  Don't  worry  yourself  about  money. 
I  have  borrowed  two  thousand  francs  ;  and  unless  some- 
thhig  unforeseen  happens,  you  can  repay  me  when  you 
sell  your  clock.  But  I  have  m}'  doubts  about  the  lender, 
for  he  has  just  sent  me  this  stamped  paper." 


Cousin  Bette,  103 

And  she  placed  the  warning  of  arrest  Rivet  had  al- 
read}'  sent  her  under  the  sketch  of  Marechal  Montcornet. 

'' For  wliom  are  3'ou  doing  that  loveh'  thing?"  she 
asked,  taking  up  the  branch  of  hortensias  moulded  in 
red  wax,  which  Wenceslas  had  laid  down  while  he  ate 
the  fruit. 

"  For  a  jeweller." 

*' What  jeweller?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Wenceslas.  "  Stidmann  asked 
me  to  twist  the  thing  up  for  him  ;  he  is  ver}'  much 
hurried." 

"  These  are  hortensias,"  she  said  in  a  hollow  voice. 
"  Why  have  you  never  done  anything  in  wax  for  me? 
Was  it  so  impossible  to  make  me  a  ring,  a  casket,  — 
I  don't  care  what,  —  a  keepsake ! "  she  added,  with  a 
dreadful  look  at  her  victim,  whose  eyes,  happily',  were 
lowered.    "Yet  you  say  3'ou  love  me." 

"  Can  3'ou  doubt  it,  mademoiselle?" 

"Oh,  what  an  ardent  'mademoiselle'!  Hear  me  I 
You  have  been  my  one  thouglit  ever  since  I  found  you 
dying  here.  When  I  saved  your  life  3'ou  gave  it  to 
me.  I  have  never  reminded  you  of  that  engagement, 
but  I  made  it  binding  on  myself.  I  said ,  '  Since  he 
has  given  himself  to  me,  I  swear  to  make  him  rich 
and  liapp}'.'  Well,  I  have  succeeded  in  making  3'our 
fortune." 

"  How?"  cried  the  poor  fellow,  overcome  with  J03', 
and  too  guileless  to  suspect  a  trap. 

"  I  will  tell  you  how,"  resumed  Bette. 

Lisbeth  could  not  den3'  herself  the  savage  pleasure 
of  watching  Wenceslas  as  he  looked  at  her  with  filial 
affection  into  whicli  his  love  for  Elortense  interjected  a 


164  Cousin  Bette. 

certain  ardor.  Seeing,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the 
fires  of  passion  in  the  eyes  of  a  man,  she  fancied  she 
had  Hghted  them  herself. 

"  Monsieur  Crevel  offers  ns  a  share  of  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  a  joint-stock  company,  if  you  will 
marr}^  me,"  she  said.  "  He  has  odd  ideas,  that  old 
fellow.    What  do  j^ou  sa}-?"  she  added. 

The  artist,  pale  as  death,  looked  at  his  benefactress 
with  a  lifeless  eye  that  revealed  his  thoughts.  He  was 
silent,  and  seemed  stupefied. 

"No  one  ever  told  me  so  plainly  that  I  am  hid- 
eously ugly,"  she  said,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  answered  Steinbock,  "  my  benefac- 
tress can  never  be  ugl}'  in  my  e}  es  ;  I  have  the  warm- 
est aff'ection  for  3'ou,  but  I  am  only  thirt}^  and  —  " 

"  I  am  fortj'^-three,"  she  interrupted.  "  M}'-  cousin 
Adeline,  who  is  forty-eight,  still  inspires  desperate  pas- 
sions ;  but  she  is  beautiful  —  beautiful ! " 

"  Fifteen  3'ears'  difference,  mademoiselle!  What  sort 
of  home  coukl  we  make?  For  both  our  sakes,  we  ought, 
I  think,  to  reflect.  My  gratitude  is  certain!}"  equal  to 
5'our  benefactions.  Besides,  I  shall  repa}-  3'our  money 
in  a  few  da^'s." 

"  My  money  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  3^ou  treat  me  as  if 
I  were  a  heartless  usurer." 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Wenceslas,  "but  3'OU  speak  of 
it  so  often  —  In  short,  3'Ou  have  created  me  ;  do  not 
destroy  me." 

"  You  wish  to  leave  me,  —  I  see  it  plainh',*'  she  said. 
"What  has  given  you  this  strength  of  ingratitude, — 
3'ou  who  are  made  of  wax  3'ourself  ?  Have  I  lost  3'our 
confidence,  —  I,  30ur  guardian  angel,  —  I,  who  have  so 


Cousin  Bette.  165 

often  passed  whole  nights  in  working  for  yon,  —  I,  who 
have  spent  the  savings  of  all  my  life  for  your  benefit, 
who  for  years  have  shared  my  bread,  the  bread  of  a  poor 
working- worn  an,  with  you,  and  w  ho  gave  yon  everything, 
even  courage  !  —  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  enough  !  enough  !  "  cried  Wenceslas, 
falhng  on  his  knees  and  taking  her  hand.  "  Oh,  say 
no  more !  In  three  days  I  will  tell  3'ou  all.  Suffer  me 
to  be  happy,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hands.  "  I  love,  and 
I  am  loved." 

"  AYell,  then,  be  happy,  m3'  son,"  she  said,  raising  him. 

Then  she  kissed  his  forehead  and  hair  with  the  frenzy 
of  a  man  condemned  to  death,  as  he  parts  with  all  on 
his  last  morning. 

''  Ah,  you  are  the  noblest  and  best  of  women  !  You 
equal  her  I  love  ! "  cried  the  poor  artist. 

"  I  love  you  enough  to  tremble  for  3'our  future,"  she 
said,  darkh\  "Judas  hung  himself.  All  ingratitude  is 
punished.  You  leave  me,  and  3'ou  will  never  again  do 
any  work  of  value.  Listen  to  me  :  without  marriage,  — 
for  I  am  an  old  maid,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  stifle  your 
3'outh,  your  poetr}',  as  3'ou  call  it,  in  arms  that  are  as 
withered  as  the  shoots  of  a  grape-vine,  —  but,  without 
marriage,  could  we  not  live  together  ?  Reflect,  —  I  have 
the  soul  of  business  in  me.  With  ten  3'ears'  toil  I  could 
amass  a  fortune,  for  my  name  is  Thrift.  Whereas,  if 
3'OU  marr3'  a  3'oung  woman  who  costs  mone3',  3^ou  will 
spend  all  and  onh'  work  to  please  her.  Happiness  gives 
nothing  but  memories.  When  I  think  of  3'Ou  I  sit  wdth 
hanging  arms  for  hours  together.  Ah,  Wenceslas,  stay 
with  me  !  There,  there,  I  understand  it  all  now  !  Yes, 
you  shall  have  mistresses,  prett3'  women  like  that  little 


166  Cousin    Bette. 

Marneffe,  who  wants  to  see  3'ou,  and  who  can  give  3'ou 
pleasures  you  cannot  have  with  me.  You  shall  many 
when  I  have  amassed  enough  to  give  3'ou  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year."   * 

"You  are  an  angel,  mademoiselle,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  this  hour,"  answered  Wenceslas,  wiping  his  tears. 

"  Ah,  now  you  are  all  I  ask,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  as  though  intoxicated. 

Vanity  is  so  all-powerful  that  Lisbeth  believed  she 
had  triumphed.  She  had  made  a  vast  concession  in 
offering  Madame  Marneffe.  The  strongest  emotion  of 
her  life  now  took  possession  of  her ;  she  felt  love  for 
the  first  time  inundating  her  heart.  To  gain  another 
such  hour  she  would  have  sold  herself  to  the  devil. 

"  I  am  engaged  to  be  married,"  answered  Steinbock, 
"  and  I  love  a  woman  against  whom  no  other  woman 
can  prevail.  But  3'ou  are,  and  ever  will  be,  the  mother 
whom  I  have  lost." 

The  words  sent  an  avalanche  of  snow  into  the  flaming 
crater.  Lisbeth  sat  down,  and  gazed  with  gloomy  eyes 
at  that  vision  of  youth,  that  high-born  beautj^  at  the 
handsome  brow,  the  fine  hair,  at  all  that  roused  within 
her  the  repressed  instincts  of  a  woman  ;  and  little  tears, 
which  dried  instantlj',  forced  themselves  for  a  moment 
to  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  curse  you,"  she  said  ;  "  3'ou  are  but  a  babe. 
May  God  protect  you  !  " 

She  went  downstairs  and  locked  herself  up  in  her 
apartment. 

*'  She  loves  me,"  said  Wenceslas,  —  "  poor  woman  ! 
How  hotl}^  eloquent  she  was  !  she  is  crazy." 

This  last  attempt  of  a  hard  and  self-willed  nature  to 


Cousin   Bette.  167 

keep  that  other  image  of  beauty  and  charm  for  its  own 
had  so  much  of  violence  about  it  that  it  can  be  hkened 
onl}'  to  the  savage  vigor  of  a  drowning  man  making  a 
last  effort  to  reach  the  shore. 

On  the  next  da^'  but  one,  at  half-past  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  as  Comte  Steinbock  was  sleeping  his  deep- 
est sleep,  some  one  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  garret. 
He  opened  it  and  saw  two  ill-dressed  men,  accompanied 
b}'  a  third  whose  coat  proclaimed  him  a  sheriff's  officer. 

"  You  are  Monsieur  Wenceslas,  Comte  de  Steinbock?  " 
said  the  latter. 

"Yes." 

"  My  name  is  Grasset,  monsieur,  successor  to  Mon- 
sieur Louchard,  sheriff's  officer." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?  " 

"  I  arrest  you,  monsieur ;  you  must  accompan}'  us  to 
Clich}'.  Be  so  good  as  to  dress  yourself.  We  have  en- 
deavored to  spare  your  feelings,  — I  have  not  brought 
the  municipal  guard,  and  there  is  a  carriage  waiting 
below." 

"  Yes,  we  have  done  it  comfortably,"  said  one  of  the 
bailiffs,  "  and  we  count  on  your  generosit}'." 

Steinbock  dressed,  and  was  taken  downstairs  by  the 
bailiffs,  each  holding  an  arm  ;  he  w^as  put  into  the  coach, 
and  the  driver  started  without  orders,  like  a  man  who 
knew  where  to  go.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  the  poor 
stranger  was  secureh*  locked  up,  without  having  made 
an  nppeal,  so  great  was  his  astonishment. 

At  ten  o'clock,  he  was  called  down  to  the  office  of  the 
prison  to  see  Lisbeth,  who,  all  in  tears,  gave  him  some 
money,  telling  him  to  live  well,  and  get  a  room  large 
enough  to  work  in. 


168  Cousin  Bette. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "don't  speak  of  your  arrest  to 
any  one  ;  don't  write  it  to  a  living  soul ;  it  would  ruin 
3-our  future.  We  must  hide  this  disgrace.  I  shall  soon 
get  3'ou  released,  —  I  am  going  now  to  collect  the  mone^' ; 
don't  be  anxious.  Write  me  what  I  shall  bring  3'ou 
for  3'our  work.     You  shall  be  free  soon  or  I  shall  die." 

"Twice  I  owe  my  life  to  you!"  he  cried;  "for  I 
should  lose  more  than  m}'  life  if  I  were  thought  a 
scoundrel." 

Lisbeth  went  away  with  a  joj'ful  heart ;  she  hoped  to 
break  off  the  marriage  with  Hortense  b}'  keeping  the 
exile  under  lock  and  key,  and  declaring  that  he  had 
returned  to  Russia,  pardoned  b}'  the  exertions  of  a  wife 
whom  he  had  left  there.  To  carr}?  out  this  scheme  she 
went  to  Madame  Hulot's  about  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, though  it  was  not  the  day  on  which  she  habitually 
dined  there.  But  she  longed  to  witness  the  tortures 
which  her  little  cousin  would  undergo  when  the  hour 
came  for  Wenceslas  to  arrive. 

"Have  you  come  to  dinner,  Bette?"  said  Madame 
Hulot,  hiding  her  vexation. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  will  go  and  tell  them  to  be  punctual,"  said 
Hortense,  "  for  you  don't  like  waiting." 

Hortense  made  a  sign  to  her  mother  not  to  be  anxious, 
for  she  meant  to  tell  the  footman  to  send  away  Monsieur 
Steinbock  when  he  arrived ;  but  the  footman  was  out. 
Hortense  was  obliged  to  give  her  order  to  the  chamber- 
maid, and  the  chambermaid  went  upstairs  to  get  her 
sewing  before  she  went  to  the  antechamber. 

"  Well,  Hortense,"  said  Bette,  when  the  young  girl 
returned,  "you  never  ask  me  now  about  my  lover." 


Cousin  Bette.  169 

"  True  enougb,  what  is  he  doing?  "  said  Horteiise  ;  "  I 
see  he  has  become  celebrated.  You  ought  to  be  satis- 
fied," she  whispered  in  her  cousin's  ear;  "  the}'  talli  of 
nothing  now  but  Monsieur  Wenceslas  Steinbock." 

' '  The}'  talk  too  much,"  answered  Bette,  aloud  :  "he 
is  getting  restless.  I  could  charm  him  awa}'  from  the 
dissipations  of  Paris,  for  I  know  m}'  power  over  him  ; 
but  it  seems  the  Emperor  Nicholas,  wanting  to  keep 
such  a  fine  artist  in  Russia,  is  going  to  pardon  him." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  baroness. 

"How  did  3'ou  hear  that?"  said  Hortense,  whose 
heart  was  seized  with  a  sort  of  cramp. 

"  Wh}',"  replied  Bette,  with  devilish  malice,  "  a  per- 
son who  has  the  best  claim  to  him  —  his  wife  —  wrote 
and  told  him  so  ;  he  got  the  letter  to-day,  and  wants  to 
start  at  once.  It  is  ver}'  foolish  of  him  to  leave  France 
for  Russia." 

Hortense  glanced  at  her  mother  as  her  head  drooped 
to  one  side ;  the  baroness  had  bareh'  time  to  catch  her 
daughter  before  she  fainted  awa}',  white  as  the  lace  about 
her  neck. 

"  Lisbeth !  3'ou  have  killed  her ! "  cried  Madame  Hulot. 
"  You  were  born  to  be  our  misfortune  !  " 

"  How  is  it  m}'  fault?"  exclaimed  Bette,  rising  and 
assuming  a  threatening  attitude,  to  which  the  baroness 
in  her  trouble  paid  no  attention. 

"I  was  wrong,"  said  Adeline,  holding  Hortense; 
"ring  the  bell,  Bette." 

At  this  instant  the  door  of  the  room  opened ;  the 
two  women  turned  their  heads,  and  saw  Wenceslas 
Steinbock,  to  whom  the  cook,  in  the  absence  of  the 
chambermaid,  had  opened  the  front  door. 


170  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Hortense ! "  he  cried,  springing  toward  tlie  three 
women. 

He  kissed  his  love  on  her  forehead  before  the  eyes 
of  her  mother,  but  so  respectfull}'  that  the  baroness 
made  no  objection.  It  was  better  than  all  the  salts  of 
England  against  the  fainting  fit.  Hortense  opened  her 
e^'es,  saw  Wenceslas,  and  her  color  returned.  A  moment 
later  she  was  herself  again. 

"So  this  is  what  3'ou  were  concealing  from  me?" 
said  Bette,  smiling  at  Wenceslas,  and  pretending  to 
guess  the  truth  from  the  evident  confusion  of  her  two 
cousins.  "  How  came  you  to  steal  ni}'  lover?  "  she  said 
to  Hortense,  leading  her  into  the  garden. 

Hortense  candidly  related  the  whole  story.  Her  father 
and  mother,  convinced,  she  said,  that  Bette  had  no  idea 
of  marrying,  had  authorized  Comte  Steinbock's  visits. 
But  Hortense,  like  the  Agnes  of  old,  attributed  to  ac- 
cident her  purchase  of  the  group  and  the  first  visit  of 
the  artist,  who,  she  declared,  was  anxious  to  ascertain 
the  name  of  its  owner.  Steinbock  soon  joined  the 
cousins  and  thanked  Bette,  privatel}',  for  so  quickl}' 
delivering  him.  Lisbeth  replied,  jesuitically,  that  the 
creditor  had  made  such  vague  promises  that  she  onl}^ 
expected  to  release  him  on  the  following  day,  but  she 
supposed  the  man  had  felt  ashamed  of  the  persecu- 
tion and  had  taken  the  steps  himself  She  appeared 
pleased  at  the  result,  and  congratulated  Wenceslas  on 
his  happiness. 

"  Naughty  boy ! "  she  said  to  him  aloud  before  Hor- 
tense and  her  mother,  "  if  you  had  told  me  night  before 
last  that  you  loved  my  cousin  Hortense  and  that  she 
loved  you,  you  would  have  saved  me  many  tears.     I 


Cousin  Bctte.  171 

thought  3'on  were  going  to  abandon  your  old  friend, 
3'our  mentor,  when,  on  tiie  contrary,  you  are  about 
to  be  my  cousin.  In  future  you  are  bound  to  me  by 
ties,  feeble  it  is  true,  but  which  suffice  for  the  love  I 
have  sworn  to  you." 

She  kissed  Wenceslas  on  the  forehead.  Hortense 
flunof  herself  into  her  cousin's  arms  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  I  owe  my  happiness  to  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will 
never  forget  it." 

"  Cousin  Bette,"  said  the  baroness,  kissing  Lisbeth, 
in  her  joy  at  the  easy  manner  in  which  matters  were 
settling  themselves,  *'  the  baron  and  I  have  a  debt  to 
discharge  toward  you.  Come  and  talk  over  matters  in 
the  garden,"  she  added,  carrying  her  off. 

So  Lisbeth  played,  to  all  appearances,  the  part  of 
guardian  angel  to  the  family  ;  she  felt  herself  an  object 
of  importance  to  Crevel,  to  Hulot,  to  Adeline,  and  to 
Hortense. 

"  We  wish  you  not  to  work  an}'  longer,"  began  the 
baroness.  "Let  us  suppose  that  you  earn  fort}'  sous 
a  day,  not  including  Sundays,  that  makes  six  hundred 
francs  a  year.     How  much  liave  vou  laid  b}'?" 

"  Four  thousand  five  hundred  francs." 

"Poor  cousin!"  said  the  baroness,  liftins;  her  eves 
to  heaven  as  she  thought  of  the  toil  and  privations  by 
which  that  sum  had  been  accumulated  through  thirty 
3'ears.  Lisbeth,  mistaking  the  meaning  of  the  exclama- 
tion, saw  in  it  the  contemptuous  pity  of  a  parvenue, 
and  her  hatred  acquired  a  fresh  dose  of  gall  at  the 
very  moment  when  Adeline  was  overcoming  her  dis- 
trust for  her  childhood's  tyrant. 


172  Cousin  Bette. 

"We  will  add  ten  thousand  five  hundred  francs," 
resumed  Adeline,  "  and  give  30U  a  life-interest  in  the 
whole,  with  reversion  of  the  capital  to  Hortense.  Thus 
vou  will  get  an  income  of  six  hundred  francs  secured  to 
you." 

Lisbeth  seemed  at  the  summit  of  happiness.  When 
she  re-entered  the  salon,  with  her  handkerchief  at  her 
eyes,  apparentl^^  drjing  the  tears  of  jojs  Hortense  told 
her  of  the  favors  which  were  being  showered  on  Wen- 
ceslas,  now  the  idol  of  the  family. 

When  the  baron  entered  the  room  the  baroness  had 
just  formalh'  addressed  Steinbock  as  her  son,  and  ap- 
pointed that  day  fortnight  for  the  wedding,  subject  to 
her  husband's  approval.  The  whole  family  at  once 
surrounded  him,  some  to  whisper  these  facts  in  his  ear, 
others  to  embrace  him. 

"  You  have  gone  too  far,  madame,"  he  said  severely. 
''The  marriage  is  not  a  certaint}^,"  he  continued,  with 
a  look  at  Steinbock,  who  turned  pale. 

The  luckless  artist  said  to  himself,  "  He  has  heard 
of  m}^  arrest." 

"  Come,  children,"  said  the  baron,  motioning  Hor- 
tense and  her  lover  into  the  garden. 

He  sat  down  with  them  on  a  bench  in  the  kiosk, 
which  was  covered  with  lichen. 

"Monsieur  le  comte,  do  3'ou  love  m}^  daughter  as 
much  as  I  loved  her  mother?"  said  the  baron. 

"  More,  monsieur,"  replied  the  artist. 

"  Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  peasant,  and  she 
had  n't  a  penny." 

"Give  me  Mademoiselle  Hortense  such  as  she  is, 
without  a  trousseau  even." 


Cousin  Bette.  173 

"  Absurd  !  "  said  the  baron,  smiling.  ''  Hortense  is 
the  dau«:hter  of  a  councillor  of  state  in  the  ministry  of 
AVar,  decorated  with  the  grand  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
honor,  a  brother  of  Comte  Hulot  of  immortal  glorj-, 
who  will  soon  be  a  marshal  of  France !  Besides,  she 
has  a  dowry." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  happ}'  lover,  "  that  I  seem  to 
be  ambitious,  but  if  my  dear  Hortense  were  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  daj'-laborer,  I  should  marry  her  all  the  same." 

"That  is  what  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  the  baron. 
"Run  awa}',  Hortense,  I  want  to  talk  to  Monsieur  le 
comte ;  3'ou  see  now  that  he  sincerelj'  loves  3'ou." 

"Oh,  papa!  I  knew  you  were  joking,"  cried  the 
happy  girl. 

"My  dear  Steinbock,"  said  the  baron,  with  infinite 
grace  of  diction  and  charm  of  manner,  as  soon  as  he 
was  alone  with  the  artist,  "  I  gave  my  son  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  when  he  married,  and  the  poor 
lad  has  never  asked  for  one  pennj^  of  it,  and  he  will 
never  get  one.  My  daughter's  dowr}'  is  also  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  which  you  must  acknowledge  to 
have  received  —  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  baron." 

"  How  you  catch  me  up  !  "  said  Hulot.  "  Have  the 
goodness  to  listen.  I  do  not  expect  from  a  son-in-law 
the  generosity  I  have  a  right  to  claim  from  a  son.  My 
son  knew  what  I  could  do  and  would  do  for  his  future. 
He  will  one  day  be  a  minister,  and  obtain  his  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  readil}'.  As  for  3'ou,  young  man, 
it  is  another  matter  altogether.  You  will  receive  sixty 
thousand  francs  invested  in  the  Funds  at  five  per  cent, 
in  3'our  wife's  name.     This  will  be  charged  with  a  small 


174  Cousin   Bette. 

annuity  for  Lisbeth,  but  she  won't  live  long ;  she  is 
consumptive,  as  I  happen  to  know ;  don't  say  so,  how- 
ever, to  any  one  ;  let  the  poor  thing  die  in  peace.  M3' 
daughter  will  have  an  outfit  costing  twent}^  thousand 
francs  ;  her  mother  puts  six  thousand  francs'  worth  of 
her  diamonds  into  it." 

"Monsieur,  3'ou  overwhelm  me,"  said  Steinbock, 
bewildered. 

"As  to  the  remaining  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
francs  —  " 

"  Sa}"  no  more,  monsieur,"  cried  the  artist.  "  I  wish 
m}'  dear  Hortense  —  " 

"  Will  3^ou  listen  to  me,  effervescent  3'oung  man?  As 
to  the  hundred  and  twent}^  thousand  francs,  I  have  not 
got  them,  but  3'ou  will  receive  them  —  " 

"Monsieur  —  " 

"  — from  the  government,  in  orders  for  statues  which 
I  pledge  3'ou  m3'  honor  I  will  obtain  for  you.  You 
alread3'  have  an  atelier  at  the  marble-works.  Exhibit 
a  few  fine  statues  and  I  will  get  you  into  the  Institute. 
There  is  a  great  desire  in  high  places  to  oblige  m3' 
brother  and  me,  and  I  hope  to  succeed  in  getting  3'ou 
certain  work  at  Versailles  which  will  secure  at  least  a 
quarter  of  the  sum.  Then  3^ou  will  get  orders  from  the 
municipalit3'  of  Paris,  and  some  from  the  Chamber  of 
Peers  —  in  short,  3'Ou  will  have  so  much  to  do,  m3'  dear 
fellow,  that  3'ou  will  be  obliged  to  call  in  assistance. 
In  that  wa3^  I  shall  pay  3'ou  the  full  amount.  It  is  for 
you  to  sa3'  if  a  dot  paid  in  that  manner  will  satisf)'  3'ou. 
Examine  3'our  own  capabilities." 

"  I  am  capable  of  making  m3'  wife's  fortune  all  alone, 
even  if  I  had  no  such  help,"  cried  the  brave  artist. 


Cousin  Bette.  175 

*'  A  man  after  m}^  own  heart !  "  exclaimed  the  baron. 
''  Ah  !  that  noble  spirit  of  youth  that  fears  nothing  !  I 
could  have  overthrown  armies  for  the  woman  I  loved. 
AVell,"  he  added,  taking  the  young  man's  hand  and 
stroking  it,  "you  have  my  consent.  Next  Sunday  we 
will  sign  the  marriage  contract,  and  the  following  Sat- 
urday—  to  the  altar  !     It  is  my  wife's  birthday." 

"  All 's  well !"  cried  the  baroness  to  her  daughter,  as 
they  stood  at  the  window.  "Your  father  and  your 
lover  are  embracing  each  other." 

When  Wenceslas  reached  home  that  evening  he 
found  an  explanation  of  the  enigma  of  his  release. 
The  porter  gave  him  a  large  package  which  contained 
the  papers  relating  to  his  debt  and  a  receipt  in  full, 
accompanied  by  the  following  letter:  — 

My  Dear  "Wenceslas,  —  I  went  to  your  liouse  at  ten 
o'clock  this  morning,  to  take  you  to  a  royal  highness  who 
wants  to  see  you.  There  I  heard  that  certain  brigands  have 
carried  you  off  to  an  isle  of  their  own,  called  Clichy. 

I  went  at  once  to  find  Leon  de  Lora  and  told  him  you 
couldn't  get  back  short  of  four  thousand  francs,  and  that 
your  future  would  be  ruined  if  I  could  not  take  you  to  see 
the  royal  patron.  Joseph  Bridau,  that  man  of  genius  once 
poor  himself,  who  knows  your  story,  happened  luckily  to 
be  there.  My  son,  between  them,  they  made  up  the  money! 
I  went  and  paid  that  Bedouin  who  committed  the  crime  of 
leze-genius  in  locking  you  up.  As  I  had  to  be  at  the  Tuil- 
eries  by  twelve,  I  could  not  go  and  see  you  sniffing  the  air  of 
freedom.  You  are  a  gentleman;  I  have  pledged  my  word 
for  you  to  my  two  friends;  but  be  sure  you  go  and  see  them 
to-morrow. 

Leon  and  Bridau  don't  wish  you  to  pay  them  in  money; 
they  both  want  a  group,  and  thereby  they  show  their  sense. 


176  Cousin  Bette, 

That  is  what  he  thinks  who  wishes  he  could  call  himself 
your  rival,  but  is  only 

Your  comrade, 

Stidmann. 

P.  S.  —  I  told  the  prince  you  would  get  back  from  a  jour- 
ney to-morrow,  and  he  said  "  Very  good,  then  to-morrow." 

Wenceslas  slept  on  a  bed  of  roses  without  a  crum- 
pled leaf,  spread  for  him  by  the  halting  goddess  Favor, 
who  steps  more  slowly  for  men  of  genius  than  Justice  or 
even  Fortune,  because  Jupiter  has  chosen  not  to  band- 
age her  ej-es.  Easilj^  deceived  b}-  the  wiles  of  charla- 
tans, attracted  by  their  trappings  and  their  trumpets, 
she  spends  the  time  she  ought  to  take  in  searching  for 
men  of  merit  bidden  awaj^  in  corners  in  gazing  at  such 
shows. 

It  is  now  necessary  to  explain  how  it  came  to  pass 
that  Baron  Hulot  was  able  to  get  together  the  amount 
of  his  daughter's  dowry,  and  yet  to  meet  the  expenses 
of  the  delightful  apartment  in  which  he  was  about  to 
install  Madame  Marneffe.  His  financial  ideas  bore  the 
stamp  of  the  genius  that  guides  spendthrifts  and  reck- 
less people  through  bogs  and  morasses  where  so  man}' 
others  perish.  Nothing  can  better  show  the  singular 
powers  bestowed  b^^  vice ;  powers  to  which  are  owing 
the  great  deeds  done  from  time  to  time  b}'  ambitious 
and  licentious  men,  —  in  fact,  by  all  those  who  follow 
the  devil. 


Cousin  Bette.  177 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN  WHICH  THE  TAIL-END  OF  AN  ORDINARY  NOVEL  APPEARS 
IN  THE  VERY  MIDDLE  OF  THIS  TOO  TRUE,  RATHER  ANAC- 
REONTIC, AND  TERRIBLY  MORAL  HISTORY. 

On  the  morning  of  the  preceding  day  an  old  man, 
Johann  Fischer,  in  default  of  thirty  thousand  francs 
borrowed  of  him  b}'  his  niece's  husband,  Baron  Hulot, 
found  himself  compelled  to  make  an  assignment,  unless 
the  baron  repaid  him  that  day. 

The  worth}'  old  man,  with  the  white  hairs  of  seventy 
winters  on  his  head,  had  so  blind  a  confidence  in  Hulot, 
who  to  the  old  Bonapartist  was  a  ray  of  the  Napo- 
leonic sun,  that  he  was  walking  with  the  bank-messen- 
ger quietl}^  up  and  down  the  antechamber  of  the  little 
ground-floor  apartment,  hired  for  eight  hundred  francs, 
where  he  carried  on  his  divers  enterprises  in  grain  and 
forage. 

"  Marguerite  has  gone  to  get  the  money  a  few  steps 
from  here,"  he  said  to  the  messenger. 

The  man  in  gra}'  with  silver  buttons  knew  the  hon- 
esty of  the  old  Alsatian  so  well  that  he  was  willing  to 
go  away  without  the  thirty  thousand  francs,  but  the 
debtor  insisted  that  he  should  wait,  on  the  ground  that 
it  was  not  3'et  eight  o'clock.  Just  then  a  cabriolet 
drove  up ;  the  old  man   sprang  into  the  street,  hold- 

12 


178  Cousin   Bette, 

ing  out  his  hand  in  perfect  faith  to  Baron  Hulot,  who 
placed  notes  for  thirt}'  thousand  francs  in  it. 

'"Drive  three  doors  off  from  here  and  wait;  I'll  tell 
you  wh}',"  said  old  Fischer.  "  Here,  young  man,"  he 
added,  returning  to  the  antechamber  and  counting  out 
the  money  to  the  representative  of  the  bank. 

When  the  latter  was  fairl}'  out  of  sight,  Fischer  called 
up  the  cab  in  which  his  august  nephew,  the  late  Emper- 
or's right  arm,  sat  waiting,  and  said,  as  he  followed  him 
into  the  house, ''  You  don't  want  the  Bank  of  France  to 
know  that  you  paid  me  that  thirty  thousand  francs  on  a 
note  endorsed  by  you.  It  is  a  good  deal  for  a  man  like 
you  to  be  willing  even  to  sign  it." 

"Let  us  go  and  sit  at  the  end  of  3'our  garden,"  said 
Hulot.  "You  are  sound?"  he  continued,  seating  him- 
self under  an  arbor  of  grape-Amines  and  looking  the  old 
man  over  as  a  dealer  in  human  flesh  looks  at  a  substi- 
tute for  the  conscription. 

"Sound  for  an  annuity,"  answered  the  lean,  vigor- 
ous, bright-eyed  old  man,  in  a  lively  tone. 

"  Do  you  suffer  from  heat?  '* 

"  No  ;  on  the  contrary." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  Africa?  " 

"A  fine  country!  Frenchmen  followed  the  Little 
Corporal  over  there." 

''  Well,  for  the  safety'  of  us  all,  you  must  go  to 
Algiers." 

"  But  my  business  here?  " 

"  A  clerk  in  the  War  office,  just  retired,  will  bu}'  j'ou 
out." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  in  Algiers?" 

"  Furnish  provisions  for  the  army,  grain  and  forage  ; 


Cousin  Bette,  179 

I  have  3'our  coin  mission  in  my  pocket.  You  can  get 
your  supplies  in  that  countiy  for  seventy  per  cent  less 
than  the  price  3'ou  will  receive  for  them." 

"  How  am  I  to  get  them  ?  " 

"By  foraging,  raiding,  seizing  them  an3'where.  Al- 
giers (a  countr}'  of  which  ver}'  little  is  known,  though 
we've  been  there  eight  years)  is  full  of  all  kinds  of  grain 
and  forage.  When  these  supplies  belong  to  the  Arabs 
we  seize  them  under  a  variety'  of  pretexts ;  when  they 
belong  to  us  the  Arabs  try  to  grab  them.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  fighting  and  struggUng,  and  no  one  rightly 
knows  how  much  is  stolen  on  either  side.  In  the  open 
country'  there  is  no  chance  to  count  the  bushels  of 
wheat  or  the  bales  of  ha}^  as  you  do  in  the  markets  and 
the  rue  d'Enfer.  Besides,  the  Arab  sheiks,  like  our 
spahis,  are  fond  of  cash,  and  they'll  sell  supplies  at 
ver}^  low  prices.  The  War  Department  requires  a  fixed 
quantity  of  provisions,  and  it  estimates  the  price,  not 
by  their  actual  cost,  but  by  the  difficulty  and  danger  of 
procuring  them.  That 's  Algiers  from  a  victualler's 
point  of  view.  It  will  be  a  dozen  years  before  we  gov- 
ernment folks  see  clear  in  the  matter ;  meantime,  indi- 
viduals have  good  eyes.  So  3'Ou  see,  I  send  3'ou  out  to 
make  your  fortune  ;  but  I  put  you  there  as  Napoleon 
put  a  poor  marshal  on  the  throne  of  a  kingdom  where 
he  wanted  a  finger  in  the  pie.  My  dear  Fischer,  I  am 
ruined.  I  must  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  within 
a  3^ear." 

"I  see  no  harm  in  getting  them  out  of  the  Bedouins," 
said  Fischer,  imperturbabl3'.  "  We  did  that  under  the 
empire." 

"  The  purchaser  of  your  business  will  come  and  see 


180  Cousin  Bette. 

3'ou  this  morning  and  pay  you  ten  thousand  francs 
down,"  continued  Hulot.  *'  Won't  that  be  enough  to 
get  3'ou  to  Africa  ?  " 

The  old  man  nodded  assent. 

"  As  to  the  mone}^  3-ou  will  want  when  3'ou  get  there, 
don't  worrj''  about  that,"  resumed  the  baron.  "  I  want 
the  rest  of  the  purchase  money  here  —  " 

"All  is  3'ours,  my  blood  if  necessar}^,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  alarmed,"  cried  Hulot,  thinking  his 
uncle  more  clear-sighted  than  he  was  ;  "  as  to  the  wa3S 
and  means  of  getting  your  supplies,  3'our  honor  is  not 
in  danger  ;  everything  depends  on  the  militar3'  authori- 
ties ;  I  have  the  appointing  of  them  down  there,  and  I 
am  sure  of  them.  Now,  uncle  Fischer,  remember,  this 
is  a  secret  of  life  and  death ;  I  know  3'Ou,  I  trust  3'OU, 
and  I  've  spoken  without  circumlocution." 

"  I  '11  go,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  and  for  how  long?  " 

"  Two  3'ears.  You  will  make  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  of  3'our  own  and  live  happy  ever  after  in  the 
Vosges." 

"  It  shall  be  as  3'ou  wish;  my  honor  is  yours,"  said 
the  old  man,  tranquill3\ 

' '  Ah  !  there  's  a  man  after  m3^  own  heart !  "  cried 
the  baron.  "  But  3'Ou  shall  not  start  until  3^ou  have 
seen  3'our  great-niece  happil3^  married.  She  will  be  a 
countess." 

But  the  raiding  of  Arabs,  the  ravaging  of  villages, 
and  the  sum  paid  b3^  the  war-clerk  for  Fischer's  busi- 
ness, could  not  all  at  once  furnish  the  sixt3'  thousand 
francs  which  the  baron  needed  for  his  daughter's  dot^ 
and  the  ioviy  thousand  which  he  was  spendmg  or  in- 


Cousin  Bette,  181 

tending  to  spend  on  Madame  Marneffe.  Besides,  how 
and  where  had  he  obtained  the  thirty  thousand  francs 
he  had  just  paid  to  old  Fischer? 

A  few  da3's  earlier  Hulot  had  insured  his  life  for  one 
hundred  and  lift}'  thousand  francs  for  three  3'ears  in 
two  companies.  With  the  policies,  on  which  the  pre- 
mium was  paid,  in  his  pocket,  he  said  to  the  banker 
Nucingen,  baron  and  peer  of  France,  with  whom  he 
was  driving  from  the  Chamber  of  Peers  on  their  way 
to  dinner :  — 

"Baron,  I  want  seventj'  thousand  francs,  and  I  ask 
3'ou  to  lend  them  to  me.  I  '11  secure  you  by  an  assign- 
ment of  my  salary  for  three  jears ;  it  is  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  a  year,  and  the  total  will  therefore  be 
seventy-five  thousand.    What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  You  may  die." 

Hulot  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket, 
"and  here  's  a  policy  of  insurance  on  my  life  for  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  which  shall  be  trans- 
ferred to  you  to  the  amount  of  eighty  thousand." 

"  Subbose  you  lose  3'our  siduation?"  said  the  mil- 
lionnaire  baron,  with  his  horrible  German  accent. 

The  non-millionnaire  baron  became  thoughtful. 

"  Oh  !  I  onl}^  make  dat  opjection  to  show  3'ou  dat  I 
run  some  dancher  in  gifing  you  dat  sum.  You  moost  be 
hard-up,  for  der  pank  has  your  zignadure." 

"  I  am  just  marrying  my  daughter,"  said  Hulot,  "  and 
I  have  no  property-,  —  like  other  men  who  serve  the  gov- 
ernment in  these  ungrateful  days,  when  those  five  hun- 
dred bourgeois  of  the  Chamber  never  think  of  rewarding- 
patriotism  and  devotion  as  the  Emperor  did  —  " 


182  Cousin   Bette. 

"  Nonzenze  !  3'0ii  haf  had  Cliosepha,"  interrupted  the 
banker;  "  dat  egsplahis  all.  Bed  ween  ourselves,  the 
Due  d'Herouville  did  you  a  great  zervice  in  ztealing 
dat  leech  out  of  3'our  burse." 

The  transaction  was  accomplished  by  the  help  of  a 
little  usurer,  named  Vauvinet,  one  of  those  satellites  of 
a  great  banking-house  who  lead  the  wa}'  for  their  ra- 
pacity-, just  as  the  pilot-fish  is  said  to  precede  a  shark. 
This  man  promised  Baron  Hulot,  for  he  was  anxious  to 
conciliate  the  favor  of  the  government  official,  to  give 
him  at  once  thirty  thousand  francs  in  letters  of  exchange 
at  ninet}'  da3's'  sight,  promising  to  renew  them  four 
times,  and  not  put  them  in  circulation.  The  purchaser 
of  Fischer's  business  was  to  paj'  fort}'  thousand  francs 
for  it,  and  to  receive  an  order  to  supply  the  forage 
needed  in  a  department  near  Paris. 

Such  was  the  disgraceful  entanglement  into  which  a 
man,  hitherto  honest  and  one  of  the  ablest  supporters  of 
the  Napoleonic  era,  was  drawn  by  his  passions.  Pecula- 
tion and  extortion  were  emplo^'ed  to  pa}"  for  usury,  usury 
to  suppl}'  his  lusts  and  marr}'  his  daughter.  This  science 
of  prodigalit}',  this  toil  after  monej^  were  undertaken  to 
appear  superb  in  the  e3'es  of  Madame  Marneffe,  to  lie 
the  Jupiter  of  a  second-rate  Danae  !  No  greater  activ- 
ity, intelligence,  or  courage  was  ever  displa3-ed  in  the 
honest  pursuit  of  fortune  than  the  baron  now  emplo3'ed 
to  plunge  head  foremost  into  a  hornets'-nest.  While 
attending  to  the  affairs  of  his  department  he  looked 
after  the  work-people,  the  upholsterers,  and  the  small- 
est details  of  the  rue  Vanneau.  With  his  mind  absorbed 
in  Madame  Marneffe,  he  still  went  to  the  sessions  of  his 
Chamber,  and  was  hei-e,  there,  and  everywhere,  so  that 


Cousin  Bette.  183 

neither  his  family  nor  any  one  else  was  aware  of  what 
really  preoccupied  him. 

Adeline,  surprised  to  hear  that  her  uncle  Fischer  was 
paid  and  to  see  a  dot  named  in  the  marriage  contract, 
was  conscious  of  a  certain  nneasiness  in  the  midst  of 
her  jo}'  at  her  daughter's  marriage,  arranged  apparentl}' 
under  honorable  circumstances  ;  but  the  evening  before 
the  wedding  (appointed  b^-  the  baron  to  coincide  with 
the  day  on  which  Madame  Marneffe  was  to  take  posses- 
sion of  her  new  apartment)  Hector  put  an  end  to  his 
wife's  surprise  and  anxiet\-  by  the  following  marital 
announcement. 

*'  Adeline,"  he  said,  ''  now  that  we  have  married  our 
daughter  all  our  anxieties  on  that  head  are  over.  The 
time  has  come  for  us  to  give  up  the  world  ;  for  I  shall 
onl}'  keep  my  situation  three  years  longer,  by  which  time 
I  can  retire  on  a  pension.  Meantime  wh}'  should  we 
spend  so  much  mone^'  uselessh'  ?  This  apartment  costs 
six  thousand  francs  a  year,  we  keep  four  servants,  and 
our  costs  of  living  are  at  least  thirty  thousand .  Of  course 
3'ou  wish  me  to  fulfil  my  pledges  ?  —  well,  I  have  as- 
signed over  m}'  salary-  for  the  next  three  years  to  get 
the  money  to  pa}'  your  uncle  Fischer,  and  to  provide 
for  Hortense  on  her  marriage  —  " 

"Ah,  you  did  right,  dear  friend,"  she  cried,  seizing 
his  hands  and  kissing  them. 

His  woi'ds  had  put  an  end  to  her  fears. 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  make  a  few  little  sacrifices,"  he 
continued,  releasing  his  hands  and  laying  a  kiss  on 
her  brow.  "  I  have  found  a  handsome  apartment  in 
the  rue  Plumet,  on  the  first  floor,  quite  suitable,  with 
eleganth'  carved   woodwork,  and    costing   only  fifteen 


184  Cousin  Bette. 

hundred  francs  a  month.  You  would  need  onl}"  one 
woman,  and  I  can  manage  with  one  man." 

"Yes,  Hector." 

"By living  simply  —  though  keeping  up  appearances 
of  course  —  3'ou  needn't  spend  more  than  six  thousand 
francs  a  j^ear,  not  counting  my  personal  wants  which 
I  shall  take  upon  myself  to  provide  for." 

The  generous  woman  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  What  happiness  to  be  able  to  prove  m}'  love  for 
you!"  she  cried.  "How  wise,  how  full  of  resources 
you  are  !  —  " 

' '  Once  a  week  we  will  receive  the  family ;  on  other 
days,  3'ou  know,  I  seldom  dine  at  home.  You  can  vcr}^ 
well  dine  twice  a  week  with  Victorine  without  compromis- 
ing your  dignit}",  and  twice  with  Hortense ;  then,  as  I 
think  I  can  make  up  mj^  quarrel  with  Crevel,  we  can  dine 
once  a  week  with  him  ;  these  five  dinners  and  our  fam- 
ily gathering  at  home  will  almost  fill  the  week,  without 
counting  outside  invitations  —  ' 

"  I  can  economize,"  said  Adeline. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  he,  "  3'ou  are  the  pearl  of  wives." 

"  M}'  good  and  precious  Hector  !  I  shall  bless  3'ou  with 
m}"  last  breath,"  she  answered,  "  for  you  have  given  my 
Hortense  a  happy  future." 

This  was  how  the  home  and  support  of  the  beautiful 
Madame  Hulot  began  to  dwindle ;  and  it  was,  let  us 
add,  the  first  step  in  the  total  abandonment  of  the  wife 
solemnly  promised  to  the  mistress. 

Crevel,  who  was  of  course  invited  to  the  signing  of 
the  marriage  contract  behaved  as  though  the  scene 
with  which  this  history  opened  had  never  taken  place, 
and  as  if  he   had    no   cause  of  anger   against   Baron 


Cousin  Bette.  185 

Hnlot.  Celestin  Crevel  M^as  good-natured ;  he  was  al- 
wa^'s  rather  too  much  of  an  ex-perfumer,  but  he  was 
now  endeavoring  to  rise  to  the  majestic  in  honor  of  his 
elevation  as  major  of  the  Legion.  He  even  talked  of 
dancing  at  the  wedding. 

"  Dear  lad}^"  he  said  gracefully  to  Madame  Hulot, 
"people  in  our  position  know  how  to  forget;  do  not 
banish  me  from  3'our  home,  and  deign  to  embellish 
mine  b}"  dining  there  occasional!}'  with  our  children. 
Do  not  fear ;  I  will  never  again  express  the  feelings 
which  lie  in  the  depths  of  my  heart.  I  behaved  like 
a  fool ;  for  I  lose  too  much  b}'  forcing  you  to  avoid 
me  —  " 

"  Monsieur,  an  honest  woman  has  no  ears  for  such 
speeches  as  those  to  which  3'ou  allude.  If  3'ou  keep 
3'our  word,  you  need  not  doubt  the  pleasure  with  which 
I  shall  welcome  the  end  of  a  quarrel,  —  alwa3's  ver}' 
painful  in  a  famil3'." 

"  Well,  old  grumbler  !  "  cried  Baron  Hulot,  carrying 
Crevel  forcibh'  into  the  garden.  "  You  avoid  me  ever3'- 
where,  even  in  m3'  own  house.  "VVh3^  should  two  ama- 
teurs of  the  fair  sex  quarrel  about  a  petticoat  ?  Bah  ; 
it  is  positivel3'  vulgar." 

"Monsieur,  not  being  a  handsome  man  like  3'our- 
self,  m3"  powers  of  seduction  do  not  enable  me  to  repair 
m3'  losses  as  easily  as  vou  appear  to  do  —  " 

"  Sarcasm,  he3'?  "  cried  the  baron. 
"  Allowable    against    conquerors    when    a    man    is 
vanquished." 

The  conversation,  begun  on  this  tone,  ended  in  a 
complete  reconcihation ;  but  Crevel,  nevertheless,  held 
firm  to  his  private  intentions  of  revenge. 


186  Coumi    Eette. 

Madame  Marneffe  wished  to  be  invited  to  the  mar- 
riage of  Mademoiselle  Hulot.  To  admit  his  future  mis- 
tress  into  his  wife's  salon  the  baron  was  obliged  to  aslv 
all  the  clerks  of  his  division  and  their  wives.  A  grand 
ball  thus  became  a  necessit3\  Like  a  true  housekeeper, 
Madame  Hulot  calculated  that  an  evening  party  would 
cost  less  than  a  grand  dinner  and  would  enable  them  to 
receive  more  people.  The  marriage  therefore  made 
much  noise  in  societ}'. 

The  Marechal  Prince  of  Wissembourg  and  the  Baron 
de  Nucingen  were  the  witnesses  for  the  bride ;  Comte 
Eugene  de  Rastignac  and  Comte  Popinot  for  Steinbock. 
After  the  latter  grew  famous  the  most  illustrious  mem- 
bers of  the  Polish  emigration  sought  him  out.  The 
Council  of  State  ;  the  department  of  the  government 
in  which  the  baron  was  a  director ;  and  the  arm}',  wish- 
ing to  honor  the  Comte  de  Forzheim,  were  all  repre- 
sented by  distinguished  members.  At  least  two  hundred 
invitations  were  solicited.  We  can  therefore  understand 
Madame  Marneffe's  anxiety  to  appear  in  all  her  glory 
at  such  a  part}'. 

The  baroness  sold  her  diamonds  for  the  furnish- 
ing of  her  daughter's  home,  reserving  only  the  finest  for 
the  wedding  outfit.  The  sale  brought  twenty  thousand 
francs,  of  which  five  thousand  were  spent  on  the  trous- 
seau,—  what  were  the  remaining  fifteen  thousand  for 
the  furnishing  of  the  new  house,  when  we  reflect  upon 
the  requirements  of  modern  luxur}'?  But  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Hulot  junior,  Crevel  and  the  Comte  de 
Forzheim  had  severall}'  made  important  presents ;  and 
the  old  uncle  still  held  in  reserve  a  large  sum  for  the 
purchase  of  silver  plate.    Thanks  to  such  help,  the  most 


Cousin   Bette.  187 

exacting  Parisian  woman  would  have  been  satisfied  with 
the  household  of  the  new  pair  in  the  pretty  apartment 
chosen  in  the  rue  Saint-Dominique  near  the  esplan- 
ade of  the  InvaUdes.  All  was  in  keeping  with  the 
fresh  young  love  of  the  young  couple,  so  pure,  so  frank, 
so  true  on  either  side. 

The  great  day  arrived  ;  and  it  was  to  be  a  great  day 
for  others  beside  Hortense  and  Wenceslas.  Madame 
Marneffe,  invited  to  be  present  at  the  marriage,  in- 
tended to  give  a  house-warming  in  the  rue  Vanneau  on 
the  morrow. 

Is  there  any  one  who  has  not  in  the  course  of  his  '' 
life  been  present  at  a  wedding  ball?  Every  one  can 
tax  his  memory  and  smile  as  he  evokes  recollections 
of  those  gayly  dressed  individuals  whose  countenances 
are  made  gay  to  match  their  wedding  garments.  If 
an}^  social  fact  ever  proved  the  influence  of  environ- 
ment it  is  the  spectacle  of  a  wedding  fote.  The  smart- 
ness of  some  reacts  so  much  on  others  that  persons 
accustomed  to  wear  appropriate  clothing  seem  to  be- 
lons:  to  the  cate^'orv  of  those  for  whom  a  weddino-  is 
a  marked  event  in  their  lives.  Who  does  not  remember 
the  grave  elderly  men,  so  indifferent  to  the  scene  that 
they  wear  their  ordinar}'  black  coats ;  the  old  mar- 
ried people,  whose  faces  betray  a  sad  experience  of 
tlie  life  the  .young  ones  are  about  to  begin ;  the 
pleasures  which  effervesce,  like  the  carbonic  acid  gas 
of  champagne ;  the  envious  young  girls,  the  mar- 
ried women  preoccupied  with  their  toilets,  the  poor 
relations  whose  scanty  adornments  contrast  with  those 
of  the  people  in  gold  lace,  the  gourmands  who  think 
onl}'  of  their  supper,  and  the  players  with  their  minds 


188  Cousm   Bette. 

on  the  card-table  ?  Eveiybod}^  is  there,  —  the  rich  and 
the  poor,  the  envious  and  the  envied,  the  philosopliers 
and  the  fools,  —  all  grouped  like  plants  in  a  basket 
round  a  central  rare  flower,  the  bride.  A  wedding  ball 
is  society  in  miniature. 

At  the  liveliest  moment  of  all  Crevel  took  the  baron 
by  the  arm,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  in  the  most  natu- 
ral manner  in  the  world,  "Bless  my  soul !  what  a  prett\" 
little  woman  that  is  in  pink  !  —  the  one  over  there  who 
is  stabbing  you  with  her  ej'es  !  " 

''Who?" 

"  The  wife  of  that  sub-director  j'ou  are  pushing  along, 
heaven  knows  how,  —  Madame  Marneffe." 

"  How  do  3'ou  know  that?  " 

"  Come,  Hulot,  I  '11  forgive  all  3'our  wrongs  to  me  if 
3'ou  will  present  me  in  her  house,  and  I  '11  let  3'ou  come 
to  Heloise  Brisetout's.  Ever3'body  is  asking  who  that 
charming  creature  is.  Are  3'ou  sure  that  none  of  3'our 
clerks  whom  I  see  here  will  tell  how  the  appointment  of 
her  husband  came  about?  Oh,  3'Ou  lucky  scamp!  She 
is  worth  a  good  man3^  appointments.  Come,  let 's  be 
friends,  Cinna." 

"  Better  friends  than  ever,"  said  the  baron  to  the 
perfumer;  "and  I'll  promise  to  do  3'ou  a  good  turn. 
In  less  than  a  month  I  '11  ask  3'Ou  to  dinner  with  my 
little  angel ;  for  we  have  got  to  the  angel  point,  old 
fellow.  I  advise  3'Ou  to  do  like  me,  —  give  up  the 
demons." 

Cousin  Bette,  installed  in  a  prett\'  little  apartment 
on  the  third  floor  in  the  rue  Vanneau,  left  the  ball  at 
ten  o'clock,  and  came  home  to  look  at  the  two  certifi- 
cates of  stock  which  were  to  3'ield  her  twelve  hundred 


Cousin  Bette.  189 

francs  a  year  ;  the  life-interest  onl}'  being  hers,  Crevel's 
money  reverting  to  Madame  Hulot  junior,  and  Adeline's 
to  the  Comtesse  Steinbock.  It  is  eas}'  to  guess  how 
Crevel  obtained  the  information  about  Madame  Mar- 
neffe  which  he  mentioned  to  the  baron.  Monsieur 
Marneffe  being  absent,  no  one  knew  this  secret  affair 
except  cousin  Bette,  Hulot,  and  Valerie. 

The  baron  had  committed  the  great  imprudence  of 
presenting  Madame  Marneffe  with  a  ball-dress  far  too 
elegant  and  costly  for  the  wife  of  a  sub-official ;  the 
other  women  were  instantl}-  jealous  of  her  beautj'  and 
her  clothes.  Mutterings  were  heard  behind  the  fans  ; 
for  Marneffe's  povert}'  w^aa  a  matter  of  common  talk 
among  his  fellow-clerks,  —  in  fact,  the  husband  was 
begging  for  help  at  the  verj'  time  when  the  baron  fell 
in  love  with  the  wife.  Moreover,  Hector  had  not  been 
able  to  conceal  his  delight  at  Valerie's  social  success. 
Elegant  in  appearance,  quiet  and  demure  in  manner, 
she  underwent  that  minute  scrutin}-  which  many  women 
dread  on  their  first  entrance  into  societ3\ 

After  putting  his  wife  and  daughter  and  son-in-law 
into  a  carriage,  the  baron  managed  to  escape  from  the 
ball-room  without  being  missed,  leaving  his  son  and 
daughter-in-law  to  pla}'  the  part  of  hosts.  He  got  into 
Madame  Marneffe's  carriage  and  went  home  with  her 
to  the  rue  Vanneau  ;  but  on  the  wa}'  he  found  her  pen- 
sive and  silent,  almost  sad. 

"  Does  my  happiness  grieve  yon,  Valerie?  "  he  said, 
drawing  her  to  him  in  the  carriage. 

"Ah,  my  friend,  can  3'ou  not  understand  that  a  poor 
woman  must  be  sad  at  committing  her  first  error,  even 
though  the  shameful  conduct  of  her  husband  may  have 


190  Cousin   Bette, 

freed  her?  Do  you  think  I  am  without  soul,  without 
behefs,  without  religion?  You  showed  such  indiscreet 
J03'  this  evening,  —  3'ou  have  held  me  up  in  such  an 
odious  light,  —  wh}^  a  collegian  would  have  shown  more 
decency  than  3'ou  !  All  those  ladies  tore  me  to  pieces 
with  their  eyes  and  their  tongues.  There  is  no  woman 
who  does  not  care  for  her  reputation ;  and  3'ou  have 
destroyed  mine.  Ah,  I  am  indeed  yours  !  and  nothing 
can  now  excuse  m3"  error  but  my  fidelity.  Monster ! " 
she  exclaimed,  laughing,  and  letting  him  embrace  her, 
''  3'ou  knew  very  well  what  3'ou  were  about.  Madame 
Coquet,  the  wife  of  the  head-director,  sat  down  hy  me 
to  admire  my  lace.  '  It  is  English  point,'  she  said  ;  'did 
it  cost  much,  madame  ? '  'I  really  don't  know,'  I  replied ; 
'  it  belonged  to  m3'  mother ;  I  am  not  rich  enough  to 
buy  such  things.' " 

Madame  Marneffe  had  contrived  to  so  bewitch  the 
old  beau  of  the  empire  that  he  reall3^  believed  she 
was  committing  her  first  error,  and  that  he  himself  in- 
spired her  with  such  love  as  to  make  her  forget  her 
duty.  She  told  him  Marneffe  had  virtually  aban- 
doned her  three  days  after  their  marriage  ;  from  that 
time  she  had  remained  a  virtuous  young  girl,  perfectly 
content  and  happ3',  because  she  regarded  marriage  as 
an  odious  thing.  The  situation,  she  admitted,  was  a 
sad  one. 

"If  love  were  the  same  as  marriage!"  she  said, 
weeping. 

These  coquettish  lies,  which  most  women  in  Valerie's 
situation  are  in  the  habit  of  telling,  dangled  the  roses 
of  the  seventh  heaven  before  the  baron's  eyes. 

Early  in  the  morning,  the  baron,  at  the  height  of 


Cousin   Bette.  191 

happiness,  having  found  his  Valerie  the  most  innocent 
of  young  girls  and  the  most  consummate  of  demons, 
returned  to  relieve  Monsieur  and  Madame  Hulot  junior 
of  their  duty  as  hosts.  The  dancers,  mostly  strangers 
to  the  famil}',  who  often  take  complete  possession  of  a 
house  on  the  occasion  of  a  wedding,  were  still  in  the 
mazes  of  that  wearisome  dance  called  tlie  '••  cotillion," 
the  players  were  still  at  the  card-table,  and  old  Crevel 
had  won  six  thousand  francs. 

The  newspapers  of  the  following  da^'  contained  this 
item :  — 

"The  marriage  of  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Steiiibock  and 
Mademoiselle  Hortense  Hulot,  daughter  of  Baron  Hulot 
d'Ervy,  councillor  of  state,  and  director  iu  the  ministry  of 
War,  took  place  this  morning  at  the  church  of  Saint  Thomas 
d'Aquin.  The  ceremony  was  witnessed  by  a  large  company, 
among  them  several  of  our  artistic  celebrities,  —  Leon  de 
Lora,  Joseph  Bridau,  Stidmann,  Bixiou  ;  also  the  notabil- 
ities of  the  War  office,  and  the  most  distinguished  members 
of  the  PoUsh  emigration,  Comte  Paz,  Comte  Laginski,  etc. 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte  Wenceslas  de  Steinbock  is  the  great 
nephew  of  the  celebrated  general  of  Charles  the  Twelfth, 
king  of  Sweden.  Having  taken  part  in  the  Polish  insur- 
rection, the  young  count  sought  refuge  in  France,  where  the 
fame  of  his  genius  has  naturalized  him  among  us." 

Thus,  in  spite  of  Baron  Hulot's  terrible  financial 
straits,  nothing  that  public  opinion  demands  was  want- 
ing to  the  marriage  of  his  daughter,  not  even  the  no- 
toriet}'  given  bv  newspaj^ers.  The  celebration  was  in 
ever}'  respect  equal  to  that  of  the  marriage  of  Hulot 
junior  with  Mademoiselle  Crevel.    This  fete  lessened  the 


192  Cousin  Bette. 

talk  which  was  current  about  the  councillor's  financial 
difficulties,  and  the  dot  given  to  his  daughter  explained 
the  necessity  he  was  under  of  borrowing  money. 

Here  ends  what  may  be  called  the  introduction  to 
this  histor}^  What  has  now  been  related  is  to  the 
drama  which  completes  it  like  the  premises  of  a  propo- 
sition or  the  argument  of  a  Greek  traged}'. 


Cousin  Bette.  193 


CHAPTER  XY. 

ASSETS    OF    THE    FIRM    BETTE    AND    VALERIE  —  MARNEFFE 

ACCOUNT. 

When  a  Parisian  married  woman  is  determined  to 
make  merchandise  of  lier  beauty  it  does  not  follow  tliat 
she  malies  her  fortune.  We  sometimes  meet  remarlv- 
able  women  of  brilliant  intelligence  in  frightful  poverty, 
ending  in  misery  a  life  beoun  in  pleasure  ;  and  the  rea- 
son is  that  the  intention  of  following  a  disgraceful  life 
for  the  sake  of  its  profits  under  the  guise  of  an  honest 
married  woman  is  not  all  that  is  required.  Vice  does 
not  win  its  triumphs  easily ;  it  so  far  resembles  genius 
that  it  needs  a  concurrence  of  fortunate  circumstances 
to  bring  it  to  a  climax  of  success.  Do  away  with  the 
strange  preceding  phtts^a.  of  the  Revolution  and  the 
Emperor  woulTl^-jiejcerJtiave  existed  ;  he  would  have 
been  a  second  edf^n  of  Fabert.  Venal  beauty  with- 
out adorers,  without  celebrit}',  without  the  badge  of 
dishonor  given  b}'  dissipated  fortunes,  is  hke  Correg- 
gio  in  a  garret,  —  genius  neglected  and  expiring.  The 
Parisian  Lais  must  therefore  find  some  man  rich  enough 
to  pa}'  her  price.  She  must  also  maintain  a  constant 
and  extreme  elegance  about  her,  for  it  is  in  fact  her 
banner ;  she  must  have  the  manners  of  good-breeding 
to  flatter  a  man's  self-love,  the  wit  of  Sophie  Arnould 

13 


194  Cousin  Bette. 

to  rouse  the  apathy  of  opulence,  and  she  must  make 
each  libertine  desire  her  by  seeming  faithful  to  a  single 
one,  whose  happiness  then  becomes  the  envy  of  all. 

These  conditions,  which  that  class  of  women  call 
their  "  chances,"  are  difficult  to  realize,  although  Paris 
is  a  cit}'  of  millionnaires,  of  men  of  leisure,  idle^lase, 
and  full  of  caprices.  ProyidexLce-^appears  to  have  spe- 
cially protected  in  this  respect  the  homes  of  the  lower 
middle  classes,  for  whom  such  obstacles  are  greatl}'  in- 
creased by  the  surroundings  in  which  the}'  revolve.  Nev- 
ertheless, there  is  many  a  Madaine  Marneffe  in  Paj'is, 
—  enough  to  justif}'  ciur  making  Valerie  a  t3'pe  in  this 
history  of  the  manners  and  custo;*rg  of  France.  Some 
women  of  this  class  are  instigated  by  real  passion  as 
well  as  by  poverty,  —  like  Madame  Colleville,  who  was 
so  long  attached  to  one  of  the  greatest  oratoi's  of 
the  Left,  the  banker  Keller ;  others  are  led  solely  b}^ 
vanity,  like  Madame  de  la  Baudraye,  who  always  con- 
tiimed  semi-virtuous,  notwithstanding  her  flight  with 
Lousteau.  Some  are  carried  awa}'  \)\  a  love  of  dress  ; 
others  by  the  impossibilit}'  of  keeping  up  appearances 
on  insufficient  means.  Perhaps  we  may  say  that  the 
parsimony  of  the  State  and  the  Chambers  has  caused 
many  such  evils,  and  given  birth  to  great  corruptions. 
The  world  is  filled  at  the  present  moment  with  pity  for 
the  condition  of  the  working-classes.  The}'  are  repre- 
sented as  throttled  by  the  manufacturers  ;  but  the  State 
is  ten  times  more  cruel  than  the  most  grasping  capi- 
talist. In  the  matter  of  salaries  it  pushes  econoni}'  to 
the  verge  of  folly.  If  a  man  works  well,  emplo3'ers  will 
pay  liim  for  his  work ;  but  what  does  the  State  do 
for  the  vast  crowd  of  its  ol)Scnre  and  ftiithfnl  toilers? 


Cousin  Bette.  195 

To  leave  the  path  of  virtue  is  an  inexcusable  crime 
in  a  married  woman ;  yet  there  are  degrees  of  crime  in 
the  situation.  Some  women,  far  from  being  absolutel}' 
depraved,  hide  their  errors  and  remain  respectable  in 
appearance,  like  the  two  we  have  just  named  ;  wdiile 
others  add  to  their  crime  tlie  shamelessness  of  spec- 
ulation. Madame  Marneffe  is  the  t3'pe  of  those  am- 
bitious married  courtesans  who  from  the  start  adopt 
depravit}'  with  all  its  consequences,  and  resolve  to  make 
their  fortune  while  amusing  themselves,  without  scru- 
ple as  to  the  means  emploj'ed.  Such  women  usually 
have,  like  Madame  Marneffe,  decoj^s  and  accomplices 
in  their  husbands.  These  Machiavellis  in  petticoats 
are  the  most  dangerous  of  their  sex,  and  of  all  the  evil 
species  of  Parisian  woman  the}'  are  the  worst.  Courte- 
sans like  the  Josephas,  the  Schontzes,  the  Malagas,  and 
the  Jenn}'  Cadines  bear  on  their  person  a  frank  adver- 
tisement of  their  trade,  as  luminous  as  the  red  lan- 
tern of  prostitution  or  the  argand  lamps  of  a  gambling 
hell.  A  man  knows  when  he  sees  them  that  he  is  going 
to  his  ruin.  But  soft-spoken  decency,  the  semblance 
of  virtue,  the  hypocritical  affectations  of  the  married 
woman  who  lets  nothing  be  seen  but  the  common  house- 
hold wants,  who  apparenth'  sets  her  face  against  im- 
prudence, lead  men  to  a  ruin  that  has  none  of  the 
excitements  of  show,  and  is  all  the  more  strange  be- 
cause the  man,  though  he  may  excuse  his  foil}',  can 
never  explain  it  to  himself.  It  is  a  shameful  account 
of  extravagance  and  expense,  without  the  jo^'ous  intox- 
ications that  make  a  man  a  spendthrift.  The  father  of 
a  famih'  ruins  himself  without  meretricious  fame  or  the 
consolations  of  o-ratified  vanitv. 


196  Cousin  Bette. 

This  allocution  will  strike  like  an  arrow  to  the  heart 
of  man}'  families.  There  are  Madame  Marneffes  in  all 
conditions  of  social  life,  even  in  the  midst  of  courts ; 
for  Valerie  is  a  sad  realit}',  drawn  from  life  in  ever}' 
detail.  Unhappil}",  this  portrait  will  cure  no  man's 
mania  for  angels  with  soft  smiles,  pensive  glances,  art- 
less faces,  and  hearts  that  are  mone3'-bags. 

About  three  years  after  the  marriage  of  Hortense,  — 
that  is,  in  1841, — Baron  Hulot  d'Erv}' was  supposed 
in  the  ej'es  of  the  world  to  have  reformed,  and  3'et 
Madame  Marnefle  was  costing  him  twice  as  much  as 
Josepha  had  ever  done.  Valerie,  however,  though  al- 
wa3'S  well  dressed,  affected  the  simple  habits  of  a  woman 
married  to  a  government  emploj'e ;  she  kept  all  her  lux- 
ury for  her  own  apartment  and  her  personal  adornment 
at  home.  She  sacrificed  her  Parisian  vanities  to  her 
dear  Hector ;  but  whenever  she  did  go  to  the  theatre 
it  was  always  in  a  prett}^  new  bonnet  and  a  dress  of 
the  choicest  elegance ;  the  baron  took  her  there  in  a 
carriage,  and  provided  one  of  the  best  boxes. 

The  apartment  in  the  rue  Vanneau,  which  occupied 
the  whole  of  the  second  floor  of  a  large  modern  house 
standing  between  the  courtyard  and  garden,  had  an  air 
of  the  utmost  respectabilit}'.  Its  luxur}"  was  nothing 
more  than  chintz  hangings  and  handsome,  convenient 
furniture.  The  bedroom,  however,  was  exceptional,  and 
displayed  an  extravagance  'dear  to  the  Jenny  Cadines 
and  the  Schontzes, — lace  curtains,  cashmeres,  broca- 
telle  portieres,  chimne}^  ornaments  made  from  designs 
by  Stidmann,  a  little  etagere  crowded  with  treasures,  — 
for  Hulot  did  not  choose  to  put  his  Valerie  in  a  nest 


Cousin  Bette.  197 

inferior  in  magnificence  to  the  lair  of  gold  and  pearls 
of  a  Josepha.  The  two  principal  rooms  —  a  dining- 
room  and  salon  —  were  modestly  furnished,  the  one  in 
red  damask,  the  other  in  carved  oak.  But  at  the  end 
of  six  months,  the  baron,  led  away  b}^  the  desire  to 
have  ever\'thing  in  keeping,  added  ephemeral  luxur}'  to 
this  plain  elegance,  such  as  pieces  of  costl}'  furniture 
and  a  silver  dinner  service  costing  twentj'-four  thousand 
francs. 

In  two  years  Madame  Marnefte's  house  acquired  the 
reputation  of  being  ver\'  agreeable.  Cards  were  plaj'ed 
there.  Valerie  herself  was  held  to  be  witt}^  and  amiable, 
and  a  rumor  was  spread,  to  justif}'  the  change  in  her 
mode  of  living,  that  a  large  legac}'  from  her  "natural 
father,"  Marechal  Montcornet,  had  been  paid  to  her 
by  a  trusted  agent  with  whom  he  had  privately  left  it. 
With  an  e3'e  to  the  future,  Valerie  added  religious  cant 
to  social  hj'pocris}'.  Punctilious  in  her  Sunday  observ- 
ances, she  got  the  credit  of  pietj'.  She  collected  monej^ 
in  church,  became  one  of  the  almoners,  carried  the  com- 
munion bread,  and  did  some  little  good  in  the  parish 
with  Hector's  mone}'.  Everything  about  her  establish- 
ment was  proper.  Many  persons  spoke  of  the  purity 
of  her  connection  with  the  baron,  —  an  old  man,  they 
said,  and  one  with  a  platonic  liking  for  the  bright  spirit, 
the  charming  manners,  and  the  conversation  of  Madame 
MarneflTe,  a  liking  like  that  of  the  late  Louis  XVIII.  for 
a  well-phrased  note. 

The  baron  alwaj's  left  the  house  with  the  rest  of  the 
company  at  midnight,  and  returned  half  an  hour  later. 
The  preservation  of  the  secret  is  thus  explained : 
The  porters  of  the  house  were  Monsieur  and  Madame 


198  Cousin  Bette. 

Olivier,  who  by  the  influence  of  the  baron  —  a  friend  of 
the  proprietor  in  search  of  a  concierge  —  had  passed 
from  their  humble  and  unproductive  position  in  the  rue 
du  Doj'enne  to  the  more  lucrative  and  pretentious  lodge 
in  the  rue  Vanneau.  Now,  Madame  Olivier,  formerly 
lingere  in  the  household  of  Charles  X.,  having,  as  she 
expressed  it,  fallen  from  that  position  with  the  legiti- 
mate branch,  was  the  mother  of  three  children.  The 
eldest,  an  under-clerk  in  a  notary's  office,  was  the  ob- 
ject of  his  parents'  fervent  adoration.  This  Benjamin, 
threatened  by  the  conscription  for  the  last  five  years, 
was  just  about  to  have  his  brilliant  career  cut  short 
when  Madame  Marneffe  got  him  exempted  from  mili- 
tary service  b}-  reason  of  a  physical  defect  such  as  the 
examiner  of  recruits  can  be  made  to  discover  when 
some  official  power  whispers  in  his  ear.  Olivier  — 
formerly  groom  in  the  stables  of  Charles  X. —  and  his 
spouse  would  henceforth  have  sacrificed  all  mankind  on 
the  altar  of  Baron  Hulot  and  Madame  Marneffe. 

What  could  the  world,  ignorant  of  the  episode  of 
the  Brazilian,  Monsieur  Montez  de  Montejanos,  say 
against  this  establishment  ?  Nothing.  Societj-  is  al- 
ways friendl}'  to  the  mistress  of  a  salon  where  it  can 
amuse  itself.  Madame  Marneffe  added  to  her  other 
charms  that  of  being  supposed  to  possess  occult  pow- 
ers. For  this  reason  Claude  Vignon,  now  secretary  to 
tlie  Marechal  Prince  de  Wissembourg,  who  aspired  to 
belong  to  the  Council  of  State  in  the  capacity  of  mas- 
ter of  petitions,  became  a  constant  visitor  at  her  house. 
There  were,  besides,  a  good  many  deputies  who  lived 
well  and  played  high.  Madame  Marnefl^e  made  up  her 
social  circle  with  judicious  slowness  and  deliberation  ; 


Cousin  Bette.  199 

sets  were  carefulh*  formed  among  persons  of  like  opin- 
ions and  manners,  all  interested  in  maintaining  the 
merits  and  charms  of  the  mistress  of  the  salon.  Social 
cliqueism  —  remember  this  axiom  —  is  the  Holy  Alli- 
ance of  Paris.  :  Interests  always  end  by  dividing  men  ; 
but  their  vices  bind  them  together. 

Three  months  after  Madame  Marneffe  was  estab- 
lished in  the  rue  Vanneaa  she  received  Monsieur,. 
Crevel,  now  ma3'or  of  his  arrondissement  and  officer 
of  the  Legion  of  honoi*.  Crevel  hesitated  over  his 
advancement  for  some  time.  It  was  necessary  to  sive 
up  that  precious  uniform  of  the  National  Guard  in 
which  he  strutted  at  the  Tuileries  feelino;  himself  as 
military  as  the  Emperor ;  but  ambition,  tickled  b}'  Ma- 
dame Marneffe,  was  stronger  than  vanit3^  Monsieur 
le  maire  now  considered  his  relations  with  Mademoi- 
selle Heloise  Brisetout  incompatible  with  his  political 
situation.  In  fact,  some  time  before  his  accession  to 
the  throne  of  the  maj'oralt}'  his  gallantries  had  been 
wrapped  in  profound  myster3\  But  he  had,  as  the 
reader  maj-  now  guess,  paid  for  the  right  to  take  his 
revenge  on  the  baron  for  the  loss  of  Josepha,  as  often 
as  he  pleased,  by  an  investment  in  the  Funds  yield- 
ing six  thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  placed  in  the  name 
of  Valerie  Fortin,  wife,  separated  as  to  propert3',  of 
the  Sieur  Marneffe.  Valerie,  probabl3^  inheriting  from 
her  mother  the  particular  genius  of  a  kept  mistress, 
had  guessed  at  a  glance  the  character  of  her  grotesque 
adorer.  The  remark  Crevel  had  let  drop  to  Lisbeth, 
"I  never  had  a  well-bred  woman,"  which  the  latter 
repeated  to  her  dearest  Valerie,  was  largeh"  discounted 
in  the  transaction  133-  which  Madame  Marneffe  got  her 


200  Cousin  Bette. 

six  thousand  francs  in  the  Funds.  Since  then  she  had 
been  careful  not  to  let  her  prestige  diminish  in  the  eyes 
of  the  former  commercial  traveller  of  Cesar  Birotteau. 

Crevel  had  made  a  marriage  of  convenience  with 
the  daughter  of  a  miller  of  La  Brie,  an  only  daugh- 
ter, whose  inheritance  really*  made  up  three-fourths  of 
his  fortune  ;  for  retail  dealers  make  their  mone}-  less  in 
their  business  than  b}^  such  rustic  connections.  Very 
man}'  farmers,  millers,  grain  and  provision  dealers  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Paris  dream  of  the  glories  behind 
a  counter  for  their  daughters,  and  see  in  some  retail- 
shopkeeper,  a  jeweller,  or  mone^'-changer  a  son-in-law 
more  after  their  own  hearts  than  notaries  or  lawj-ers, 
whose  superior  position  makes  them  uneasv ;  thc}^  are 
afraid  of  being  despised,  later,  b}'  those  leaders  of  the 
bourgeoisie.  Madame  Crevel,  a  rather  ugly  woman, 
very  vulgar  and  very  sill}',  and  who  died  in  good  sea- 
son, had  never  given  her  husband  an}'  other  pleasures 
than  those  of  paternity.  At  the  beginning  of  his  com- 
mercial career,  Crevel,  naturally  a  libertine,  shackled 
by  the  duties  of  his  position  and  restrained  by  pov- 
erty, had  played  the  part  of  Tantalus.  In  "relations," 
to  use  his  own  expression,  with  the  most  distinguished 
women  in  Paris,  who  bought  their  perfumes  at  the 
"  Queen  of  Roses,"  he  took  them  out  to  their  carriages 
with  the  obsequiousness  of  a  shopkeeper,  admiring  their 
grace,  their  way  of  wearing  their  clothes,  and  all  the 
unnamable  charms  of  what  is  called  race.  To  rise  to 
the  level  of  one  of  these  fairies  of  social  life  was  a  de- 
sire conceived  in  youth  and  long  buried  within  his  soul. 
To  win  the  favors  of  Madame  Marneffe  was  to  him 
not  only  the  realization  of  his  dream,  but  also  the  grati- 


Comin  Bette.  201 

fication  of  his  pride,  vanity,  self-love,  and  vengeance, 
as  we  have  seen.  His  ambition  rose  with  success.  He 
felt  enormous  delights  of  mind  ;  and  when  the  mind 
enjoys,  and  the  heart  echoes  the  enjoyment,  pleasures 
are  doubled.  Madame  MarnefTe  offered  rare  charms 
which  Crevel  had  never  hitherto  suspected  ;  Josepha  and 
Heloise  never  loved  him,  whereas  Madame  Marneffe 
thought  it  judicious  to  befool  him  on  that  point,  for  his 
purse  appeared  to  be  inexhaustible.  The  deceptions 
of  venal  love  are  often  more  charming  than  reality. 
True  love  is  given  to  quarrels,  like  those  of  sparrows, 
which  sometimes  strike  to  the  quick ;  but  a  quarrel  in 
jest  is  onl}'  a  sop  thrown  to  the  vanit}'  of  a  dupe.  He 
was  constantly  brought  up  against  the  virtuous  reluc- 
tance of  his  Valerie,  who  plaj'ed  remorse  and  talked  of 
what  her  father  must  think  of  her  in  the  paradise  of  the 
brave.  He  was  continually  forced  to  vanquish  a  cer- 
tain coldness  over  which  the  clever  trickster  made  him 
believe  that  he  had  triumphed.  She  seemed  to  3ield 
to  the  mad  passion  of  the  ex-shopkeeper  and  then,  as 
if  ashamed,  she  resumed,  like  an  Englishwoman,  the 
pride  of  a  decent  woman  and  the  stiffness  of  virtue, 
crushing  her  Crevel  with  the  weight  of  her  dignit}' ;  for 
he  was  realh'  taken  in  to  suppose  her  virtuous.  She 
possessed,  moreover,  special  faculties  for  tenderness, 
which  made  her  as  indispensable  to  Crevel  as  to  Hulot. 
Before  the  world  she  exhibited  an  enchanting  union  of 
simple  and  pensive  modest}-,  irreproachable  propriety 
of  conduct,  and  wit  enhanced  bj-  the  charm  and  grace 
and  manners  of  a  Creole  ;  but  when  it  came  to  a  tete-a- 
tete  she  went  far  be3'ond  a  courtesan,  — she  was  droll, 
amusing,  and  fertile  in  new  inventions.     This  contrast 


202  Cousin  Bette. 

was  delightful  to  an  individual  of  the  genns  Crevel. 
He  was  flattered  by  believing  himself  the  inspircr 
of  the  comedy ;  he  thought  it  played  for  his  sole  ben- 
efit, and  he  laughed  at  the  delightful  hypocris}-  of  the 
actress. 

Valerie  had  latel}-  adapted  the  baron  admirably  to  his 
present  position.  She  made  him  show  his  age  hj  one  of 
those  delicate  flatteries  which  serve  to  show  the  diabolic 
cleverness  of  such  women.  In  organizations  long  ex- 
empt from  the  inroads  of  age  a  moment  comes  when, 
like  a  besieged  city  which  has  long  held  out,  the  real 
weakness  declares  itself.  Foreseeing  the  approaching 
decadence  of  the  ex-imperial  beau,  Valerie  saw  fit  to 
hasten  it. 

"  Why  do  you  pinch  yourself  in,  old  man?  "  she  said 
six  months  after  their  clandestine  and  doubl}-  adulter- 
ous marriage.  "  Do  3'ou  intend  to  be  faithless  to  me? 
I  like  3'ou  much  better  not  laced  up.  Please  sacrifice 
3'our  artificial  graces  to  my  feelings.  Do  you  think  the 
two  sous'  worth  of  varnish  on  your  boots,  or  that  india- 
rubber  belt,  and  the  buckram  waistcoat,  and  the  patch 
of  false  hair  on  3'our  head,  is  what  I  love  in  3-ou?  Be- 
sides, the  older  you  are  the  less  I  shall  fear  a  rival." 

Believing  as  firmh'  in  the  divine  friendship  as  in  the 
love  of  Madame  Marnefl'e,  with  whom  he  expected  to 
end  his  days,  the  baron  followed  her  advice,  and  ceased 
to  d3'e  his  hair  and  beard.  On  receiving  this  touch- 
ing acknowledgment  of  his  Valerie's  jealous3',  the  hand- 
some Hulot  appeared  one  fine  da3^  with  a  blanched  head. 
Madame  Marnefl'e  had  no  diflficult3^  in  persuading  her 
dear  Hector  that  she  had  alread3'  seen  the  white  line 
formed  b}-  the  growth  of  his  hair  a  score  of  times. 


Ccusin   Bette.  203 

''  White  hair  is  adrairablj'  becoming  to  your  face,'* 
she  said,  gazing  at  him  ;  "  it  softens  3'our  features  ;  3'ou 
are  infinitely  liandsomer ;  you  are  charming." 

The  baron,  once  launched  in  this  direction,  cast  off  his 
leather  waistcoat  and  corset,  and  got  rid  of  his  vari- 
ous straps.  This  done,  his  stomach  dropped  down 
and  obesit}'  declared  itself.  The  oak  became  a  round 
tower,  and  the  heaviness  of  his  movements  was  the 
more  alarming  because  the  liaron  grew  unexpectedly 
old  after  assuming  the  part  of  Louis  XI I.  His  eye- 
brows remained  black  and  diml}'  recalled  the  late  hand- 
some Hulot,  just  as  a  fragment  of  sculpture  remains  on 
feudal  walls  to  show  vrhat  the  castle  once  was  in  its 
palni}^  daj's.  This  contrast  made  the  glance  of  his  eye, 
still  keen  and  youthful,  all  the  more  singular,  coming 
as  it  did  from  the  withered  face  latel}'  painted  with 
the  colors  of  Rubens,  where  certain  scars  and  length- 
ened wrinkles  now  appeared,  revealing  the  struggles  of 
passion  in  rebellion  against  the  verdict  of  nature.  Hu- 
lot was  henceforth  one  of  those  human  ruins  in  which 
virility  shows  in  hairy  tufts  on  the  nose,  ears,  fingers, 
producing  the  same  effect  as  the  lichen  on  the  well-nigh 
eternal  monuments  of  the  Eternal  City. 

It  may  be  asked  how  Valerie  contrived  to  keep 
Hulot  and  Crevel  peaceably  at  her  side  when  the  vin- 
dictive major  was  longing  for  a  startling  triumph  over 
Hulot.  Without  making  an}'  direct  reply  to  a  question 
which  will  be  answered  in  the  sequel,  it  may  be  said 
that  Bette  and  Valerie  had  invented  between  them  a 
stupendous  machine  whose  powerful  action  aided  this 
result.  Marneffe,  beholding  his  wife  much  embellished 
by  the  surroundings  in  which  she  now  reigned,  like  the 


204  Cousin  Bette. 

sun  ill  llie  sidereal  S3'stem,  was  made  to  appear  to  the 
eyes  of  otliers  once  more  infatuated  about  her  and  con- 
sequently jealous.  When  this  jealous}'  caused  Mon- 
sieur Marneffe  to  put  himself  in  the  wa}',  Valerie's 
favors  became  of  course  more  precious.  Marneffe,  how- 
ever, seemed  to  place  confidence  in  his  director,  though 
it  sometimes  degenerated  into  a  fawning  comphance 
which  was  half  ridiculous.  The  one  who  displeased 
him  was  invariabl}'  Crevel. 

Marneffe,  destro3'ed  by  debaucheries  of  everj^  kind, 
had  grown  as  hideous  as  an  anatomical  wax  figure. 
AYalking  disease  as  he  was,  he  nevertheless  appeared  in 
handsome  coats,  with  his  tottering  laths  of  legs  incased 
in  elegant  trousers,  and  his  withered  breast  covered 
with  spotless  perfumed  linen  which  concealed  the  fetid 
odors  of  his  person.  The  hideousness  of  vice  at  its 
last  gasp,  and  arra3'ed  in  the  pink  of  fashion,  —  for 
Valerie  dressed  Marneffe  in  keeping  with  her  own 
fortune,  —  horrified  Crevel,  who  was  unable  to  bear  the 
look  in  the  glazing  ej'es  of  the  subdirector.  Discover- 
ing the  curious  power  with  which  Lisbeth  and  his  wife 
had  invested  him,  the  scoundrel  amused  himself  b}'  em- 
ploying it ;  he  played  it  like  an  instrument ;  cards 
being  the  last  resource  of  this  soul,  as  worn-out  as  the 
body  that  held  it,  he  plucked  Crevel,  who  felt  himself 
obhged,  as  he  said,  to  "knock  under"  to  the  man  he 
thought  he  was  deceiving. 

Seeing  Crevel  so  submissive  to  the  hideous  and  in- 
famous mumm}^  whose  corruption  he  seemed  to  ignore, 
and  hearing  Valerie  express  the  utmost  contempt  for 
the  ex-perfumer,  laughing  at  him  as  one  laughs  at  a 
buffoon,  the  baron  thougiifc   himself  so  safe  from  all 


Cousin  Bette.  205 

rivalry  that  he  constantly  invited  his  successful  rival  to 
dinner. 

Valerie,  guarded  by  two  passions  standing  sentinel 
beside  her  and  by  the  semblance  of  a  jealous  husband, 
attracted  all  eyes,  and  excited  all  desires  in  the  circle 
where  she  reigned.  Thus  it  was  that  she  had  come  in 
less  than  three  years  (all  the  while  keeping  up  ap- 
pearances) to  realize  the  most  difficult  conditions  of  a 
courtesan's  success,  a  success  which  the  latter  seldom 
attains  even  b}^  the  help  of  scandal,  audacity,  and  the 
notoriety  of  her  life  in  open  da3^  Like  a  diamond  ex- 
quisitely set  by  Chanor,  Valerie's  beauty,  formerly  buried 
in  the  rue  du  Doyenne,  was  now  estimated  above  its 
actual  value,  and  she  had  several  aspiring  lovers ; 
among  them  Claude  Vignon,  who  secretly  loved  her. 

This  retrospective  explanation,  very  necessary  when 
we  meet  people  after  a  lapse  of  three  years,  ma}-  be 
called  the  schedule  of  the  Valerie  account.  Now  for 
that  of  her  associate,  Lisbeth  Fischer. 


206  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Assets  of  the  firm  Bette  and   Valerie  —  Fischer 

Account. 

Cousin  Bette's  position  in  the  Marneffe  establish- 
ment was  that  of  a  poor  relation  combining  the  func- 
tions of  companion  and  housekeeper  ;  but  she  met  with 
none  of  the  humiliations  which,  as  a  general  thing,  are 
the  lot  of  women  unfortunate  enough  to  be  forced  into 
accepting  such  anomalous  positions.  Lisbeth  and  Valerie 
presented  the  spectacle  of  one  of  those  rare  friendships 
and  so  little  probable  among  women  that  Frenchmen, 
alwa3'S  too  witt}"  and  wise,  instantly  ridicule  them. 
The  contrast  between  the  hard  and  virile  nature  of 
the  Lorraine  peasant-woman  and  the  soft  Creole  tem- 
perament of  Valerie  seemed  to  justify-  such  scepticism. 
Madame  Marneffe,  however,  had  lately-  given  proofs  of 
her  affection  for  her  friend  in  a  matrimonial  matter, 
which  was  destined,  as  we  shall  see,  to  cany  forward 
the  old  maid's  revenge. 

An  immense  change  had  taken  place  in  Bette  ;  Valerie, 
who  had  chosen  to  superintend  her  toilette,  effected 
marvels.  The  strange  creature,  submitting  to  corsets, 
•came  out  with  a  fine  figure,  smoothed  her  hair  with 
bandoline,  accepted  her  dresses  just  as  they  were  deliv- 
ered to  her  by  the  dress-maker,  wore  dainty  boots  and 
gray  silk  stockings  ;  all  of  which  were  charged  in  Va- 


Cousin  Bette,  207 

lerie's  bills  and  paid  for  by  whoever  the  said  bills  might 
happen  to  concern.  Thus  restored,  though  still  cling- 
ing to  the  3ellow  cashmere,  Bette  would  have  been  un- 
recognizable to  those  who  had  only  known  her  three 
years  earlier.  Like  a  black  diamond,  the  rarest  of  all 
diamonds,  cut  and  polished  by  a  skilful  hand  and  placed 
in  a  setting  that  became  it,  she  was  appreciated  by 
certain  ambitious  clerks  who  perceived  her  real  value. 
Whoever  saw  Bette  for  the  first  time  shuddered  invol- 
untarily at  the  aspect  of  barbaric  poetry  which  Valerie 
contrived  to  impart  to  the  old  maid's  person  b}-  the  cul- 
tivation of  her  dress,  and  the  art  with  which  she  framed 
the  lean  and  olive  face  in  heav}'  bandeaus  of  dark  hair 
matching  in  color  the  brilliant  eyes,  and  forced  the 
inflexible  figure  into  lines  of  S3'mmetry.  Bette,  like  a 
madonna  of  Cranach  or  Van  Eyck,  or  some  Byzantine 
virgin  descending  from  her  frame,  had  all  the  stiffness 
and  angularity  of  those  mysterious  creations,  cousins- 
german  of  Isis  and  the  divinities  cut  in  rock  hy  the 
Egyptian  sculptors.  She  was  basalt,  granite,  porphyry, 
on  two  legs.  Secure  from  want  for  the  rest  of  her  days, 
the  poor  relation  was  in  fine  good-humor,  and  brought 
gayety  to  all  the  tables  where  she  dined.  The  baron 
paid  the  rent  of  her  little  apartment,  furnished,  as  we 
know,  from  the  leavings  of  Valerie's  old  bedroom. 
''Having  begun  life,"  Bette  said,  "as  a  half-starved 
nanny-goat,  I  am  ending  it  e}i  lionne.''  She  still 
worked  certain  difficult  bits  of  gold  lace  for  Monsieur 
Rivet  so  as  not  to  waste  her  time.  There  was  little 
danger  of  that,  however,  for  she  was,  as  we  shall  see, 
extremely  busy  ;  but  she  worked  at  her  trade  all  the 
same  because  it  is  not   in  the   nature  of  the   French 


208  Cousin  Bette. 

peasantry  to  lose  the  smallest  chance  of  gain ;    in  this 
respect  they  are  like  Jews. 

Every  day,  at  dawn,  cousin  Bette  went  to  market 
accompanied  b}''  the  cook.  Her  purpose  was  to  make 
the  household  expenses,  which  were  ruining  Baron  Hulot? 
a  source  of  wealth  to  Valerie,  who  did  in  fact  save  a 
great  deal  of  money  out  of  them. 

What  mistress  of  a  household  since  1838  has  not  felt 
the  fatal  effects  of  those  Socialist  doctrines  that  are 
spread  through  the  wage-classes  by  incendiarj^  writers  ? 
In  ever^^  home  the  plague  of  servants  is  the  worst  of 
all  financial  sores.  With  rare  exceptions  (which  merit 
the  Montyon  prize)  cooks  are  domestic  robbers,  hired 
robbers,  for  whom  the  government  has  amiabl}'  made 
itself  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods  ;  thus  developing  the 
tendency  to  theft  already  half-sanctioned  among  cooks 
by  the  well-worn  jest  on  the  "handle  of  the  basket.**^ 
Where  these  women  once  filched  fort}^  sous  for  their 
lotter}'  tickets  they  now  take  fifty  francs  for  the  savings 
bank.  And  the  starched  puritans  who  amuse  them- 
selves b}^  trying  philanthropic  experiments  upon  France 
believe  they  have  improved  the  masses !  Between 
the  markets  and  the  tables  of  their  employers  these 
robbers  have  set  up  a  secret  custom-house,  and  the 
whole  municipalit}'  is  not  so  keen  in  exacting  its  dues, 
as  the  cooks  of  Paris  in  illicitl}'  collecting  theirs.  Besides 
the  fiftj'  per  cent  which  they  subtract  from  the  provisions, 
the}^  demand  large  bribes  from  the  dealers.  The  latter, 
even  the  best  of  them,  are  afraid  of  this  secret  power  ; 
they  paj'  what  it  asks  without  a  word,  —  carriage-mak- 
ers, jewellers,  tailors,  each  and  all  of  them  !  If  anj'  one 
attempts  to  question  these  proceedings,    the   servants 


Cousin  Bette.  209 

repty  insolent!}',  or  pretend  stupidit}' ;  they  make  in- 
quiries about  the  character  of  their  masters,  just  as  for- 
merly the  mastei's  inquired  about  theirs.  This  evil, 
which  seems  to  be  reaching  a  climax  and  against  which 
the  courts  are  beginning  to  proceed  (but  in  vain),  will 
not  disappear  until  a  law  is  passed  making  servants' 
wages  payable  only  on  certificates,  like  those  of  work- 
men. The  evil  would  then  vanish  as  if  by  magic.  Ser- 
vants would  be  compelled  to  produce  their  book  of 
certificates,  and  their  employers  would  be  equally  com- 
pelled to  write  down  the  reasons  why  they  are  dis- 
missed ;  the  general  demoralization  would  thus  be 
effectuall}-  curbed.  People  in  high  places  have  little 
idea  of  the  depravit}^  of  the  lower  classes  in  Paris  ;  it 
almost  equals  their  jealousy  of  those  above  them,  a 
passion  which  is  eating  into  their  hearts.  Statistics  are 
silent  as  to  the  enor.nous  number  of  workmen  not  more 
than  twenty  3'ears  old  who  marrj-  cooks  of  forty  and 
fifty  w^ho  have  thus  enriched  themselves  b}^  theft. 
We  may  well  shudder  in  thinking  of  the  results  of 
such  marriages  from  the  triple  view  of  criminality, 
bastardism  of  the  race,  and  wretched  homes.  As  to  the 
purely  financial  evil  done  by  these  domestic  robbers, 
it  is  vast  from  a  political  point  of  view.  The  costs  of 
living,  thus  doubled,  deprive  many  families  of  super- 
fluities. Superfluity,  what  is  it?  —  half  the  commerce 
of  nations,  and  the  ease  and  elegance  of  life.  Books 
and  flowers  are  as  necessary  as  bread  to  a  great  many 
persons. 

Lisbeth,  well  aware  of  this  open  sore  in  Parisian 
households,  intended  to  manage  Valerie's  household 
when  she  oflfered  her  assistance  in  that  terrible  scene 

14 


210  Cousin  Bette. 

in  which  the}^  swore  to  live  together  as  sisters.  She 
therefore  sent  to  her  native  Lorraine  for  a  relation 
on  her  mother's  side,  a  pious  old  maid  of  extreme  hon- 
est}', who  was  formerh'  cook  to  the  Bishop  of  Nanc}'. 
Fearing,  however,  that  in  spite  of  her  ignorance  of  Paris 
ways,  bad  advice  might  ruin  the  loyalt\'  of  this  treasure, 
Lisbeth  made  a  practice  of  accompanying  Mathurine  to 
market,  and  tried  to  teach  her  the  art  of  buying.  To 
know  the  proper  price  of  everything  and  thus  secure  the 
seller's  respect,  to  choose  the  provisions  in  season  (fish 
especially)  when  they  are  not  too  dear,  to  keep  the  run  of 
the  markets  and  buy  cheap  foreseeing  a  rise,  these  are 
household  qualities  absolutel}'  essential  to  domestic  econ- 
om}'  in  Paris.  As  Mathurine  received  ver}"  good  wages 
and  many  presents  she  liked  her  place  well  enough  to 
be  glad  to  make  bargains.  So  that  for  some  time  past 
she  had  rivalled  Lisbeth,  who  thought  her  pupil  suffi- 
ciently trained  to  release  her  from  going  to  market  except 
on  the  daj's  when  Valerie  had  compan}',  which,  we  ma}' 
add  parentheticall}',  happened  ver^'  often.  The  baron 
had  begun  b}*  observing  the  strictest  decorum  ;  but  his 
passion  for  Madame  Marneffe  became  in  a  short  time 
so  eager  and  unsatisfied  that  he  could  scarceh'  bear  to 
leave  her.  From  dining  at  her  house  four  times  a  week 
he  grew  to  take  that  meal  there  everj'  daj'.  Six 
months  after  his  daughter's  marriage  he  began  to  pay 
two  thousand  francs  a  month  for  his  board.  Madame 
Marneflje  invited  the  persons  whom  her  dear  Hector  de- 
sired to  meet.  The  table  was  always  laid  for  six,  and 
the  baron  was  at  liberty  to  bring  three  unexpected 
guests.  Lisbeth's  economy  solved  the  extraordinary 
problem   of  keeping  up  this  table  luxuriouslv  on  one 


Cousin  Bette.  211 

thousaud  francs  a  month,  leaving  the  other  thousand 
for  Madame  Marneffe.  Valerie's  dress  being  chiefly 
paid  for  hy  Crevel  and  the  baron,  she  contrived  to 
la}-  by  another  thousand  a  month  from  that  source. 
And  thus  it  happened  that  in  three  years  that  pure 
and  artless  little  woman  had  laid  b}'  a  snug  sum  of 
over  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  She  accum- 
ulated her  dividends  from  the  Funds,  adding  them 
to  her  monthlv  profits,  increasing  them  still  further  b}' 
the  enormous  gains  which  Crevel  obtained  for  her  by 
investing  the  capital  of  "his  little  duchess"  in  lucky 
financial  operations,  Crevel  had  initiated  Valerie  in 
the  slang  of  business  and  the  nature  of  transactions 
at  the  Bourse,  and  like  all  Parisian  women  she  was 
soon  more  skilful  than  her  master.  Lisbeth,  who  never 
spent  a  penny  of  her  twelve  hundred  francs,  and  whose 
board  and  lodging  and  clothes  were  all  provided,  so  that 
she  never  even  carried  a  purse  of  her  own,  had  also  laid 
b}'  a  little  capital  of  five  or  six  thousand  francs,  which 
Crevel  was  paternally'"  nursing. 

The  baron's  love  and  Crevel's  love  were  nevertheless 
an  oppressive  burden  for  Valerie  to  carr}'.  The  da}'  on 
which  this  tale  begins  the  little  woman,  excited  b}'  some 
one  of  those  events  which  occasional^  ring  in  our  ears 
like  the  bell  which  calls  up  a  swarm  of  bees,  had  gone 
to  Lisbeth's  apartment  to  make  her  moan,  with  much 
volubility,  after  the  fashion  of  women  who  soothe  the 
lesser  miseries  of  their  life  b}'  smoking,  as  it  were,  with 
their  tongues  the  cigarette  of  complaint. 

"Lisbeth,  my  iove !  this  morning,  two  hours  of 
Crevel !  it  is  enough  to  kill  me !  Oh !  I  wish  jou 
could  take  my  place  !  " 


212  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Unfortunatel}'  I  can't,"  said  Lisbetb,  laughing  ;  "  I 
shall  die  a  virgin." 

"  To  belong  to  both  those  old  men  !  There  are  times 
when  I  'm  ashamed  of  m3'self,  —  Ah  !  if  m}"  poor  dear 
mother  onl}^  saw  me  !  —  " 

"  Are  3^ou  taking  rne  for  Crevel?"  said  Lisbeth. 

"  Tell  me,  m}^  dear  little  Bette,  that  you  don't  despise 
me." 

"Ah!  if  I  were  as  prettj-  as  3'ou  I  should  have  my 
adventures  !  "  cried  Lisbeth  ;  "  that's  m}^  answer." 

"  But  you  would  have  followed  the  dictates  of  your 
heart,"  said  Madame  Marneffe,  sighing. 

"Bah!"  replied  Lisbeth,  "Marneffe  is  a  corpse 
the}'  've  forgotten  to  bur}-,  the  baron  is  3'our  husband, 
and  Crevel  your  lover ;  3'ou  are  onl^^  doing  like  other 
women." 

"No,  but  that  isn't  it,  my  dearest;  m}^  sadness 
comes  from  something  else,  and  3'ou  don't  choose  to 
miderstand  me." 

"  Yes  I  do,"  cried  the  peasant- woman,  "  for  the  some- 
thing else  is  part  of  m\'  revenge.  Don't  be  impatient ; 
I  am  bringing  it  about." 

"  To  love  Wenceslas  till  I  waste  awa}^,  and  yet 
never  to  see  him  ! "  exclaimed  Valerie,  stretching  out 
her  arms.  "  Hulot  asked  him  to  come  and  dine  here 
and  he  refused !  He  does  not  know  that  I  idolize 
him,  —  the  wretch  !  What 's  that  wife  of  his?  a  pretty 
bit  of  flesh.  Yes,  she  is  handsome;  but  I  —  well,  I 
feel  it  —  I  am  something  worse." 

"Don't  worry  yourself,  my  little  girl,  he'll  come," 
said  Lisbeth,  speaking  like  a  nurse  to  a  fractious  child, 
"  I  shall  manage  it." 


Cousin  Bette,  213 

''But  when?" 

"  This  week  perhaps." 

"  Give  me  a  kiss." 

The  two  women  were  really  one  ;  all  Valerie's  actions, 
even  her  caprices,  her  pleasures,  her  sulks,  were  dis- 
cussed and  adopted  after  mature  deliberation  between 
the  pair. 

Lisbeth,  strangeh'  excited  by  the  wanton  life  of  her 
friend,  advised  Valerie  in  all  her  actions,  pursuing  the 
thread  of  her  own  vengeance  with  pitiless  logic.  More- 
over, she  adored  the  woman  whom  she  had  made  her 
daughter,  her  friend,  her  love ;  she  delighted  in  the 
soft  Creole  languor  and  obedience  of  this  new  idol ;  she 
chattered  to  her  daily  with  more  pleasure  than  she  had 
ever  derived  from  Wenceslas ;  they  laughed  together 
at  their  mutual  deviltrv,  at  the  folly  of  men,  and  counted 
up  their  growing  gains  and  their  respective  fortunes. 
Lisbeth  found  in  her  schemes  and  in  this  new  friendship 
a  field  for  her  native  energy-  richer  far  than  that  which 
her  craz}^  love  for  Wenceslas  had  given  her.  The 
enjoyments  of  hatred  are  the  keenest  and  most  power- 
ful of  all.  Love  is  the  gold  and  hatred  is  the  iron  of 
that  mine  of  sentiments  which  lie  deep  within  us.  But 
beside  all  this,  Lisbeth  found  delight  in  Valerie's  beauty  ; 
that  beauty  in  full  glor}'  which  she  adored  as  we  adore 
something  we  do  not  possess,  a  beauty  far  more  amen- 
able than  that  of  Wenceslas,  which  was  always  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  frigid  and  unfeeling. 

At  the  end  of  three  years  Lisbeth  was  bes^inninsr 
to  see  the  progress  of  the  subterranean  mine  to  which 
she  was  sacrificing  her  life  and  devoting  her  intel- 
lect.    Bette    thought    and    IMadame    Marneffe    acted. 


214  Cousin    Bette. 

Madame  Marneffe  was  the  axe,  Bette  the  hand  that 
wielded  it,  and  the  hand  was  striking  down  with  rapid 
blows  the  family  who  grew  more  hateful  to  her  day 
by  day ;  for  we  hate  even  as  we  love,  daily  more 
and  more.  /  Love  and  hatred  are  passions  that  feed 
upon  themselves,  and  of  the  two  hatred  lives  longest. 
Love  is  limited  by  restricted  powers ;  its  forces  are 
those  of  life  and  generosit}' ;  but  hatred  resembles 
death,  or  avarice ;  it  is,  if  we  may  say  so,  an  opera- 
tive abstraction,  acting  outside  of  persons  and  events.  \ 
Lisbeth  had  found  the  vocation  that  suited  her  and 
brought  all  her  faculties  into  use  ;  she  was  at  the  helm 
of  events  like  the  Jesuits,  with  a  species  of  occult 
power.  The  regeneration  of  her  person  kept  pace 
with  this  development  of  her  inner  being.  Her 
face  shone.  She  dreamed  of  becoming  Madame  la 
Marechale  Hulot. 

The  foregoing  scene  in  which  the  two  friends  crudely 
told  each  other  their  inmost  thoughts,  without  the  slight- 
est circumlocution  of  language,  took  place  one  morn- 
ing after  Lisbeth  had  been  to  market  to  prepare  for  a 
choice  dinner.  Marneffe  wanted  to  obtain  Monsieur 
Coquet's  place  at  the  War  office,  and  Valerie  had  in- 
vited that  official,  together  with  the  virtuous  Madame 
Coquet,  hoping  that  the  baron  might  negotiate  his  resig- 
nation that  evening.  Lisbeth  was  dressing  to  go  to 
Madame  Hulot's,  where  she  expected  to  dine. 

"  Come  back  in  time  to  pour  out  tea,  my  Bette,"  said 
Valerie. 

"I  will  try  to." 

"Try  to!  j-ou  are  not  going  to  sleep  with  Adeline 
and  drink  in  her  tears  while  she  sleeps,  are  you?" 


Cousin  Bette.  215 

"  Ab,  if  I  only  could  !  "  answered  Lisbeth,  laugbing  ; 
*'she  is  expiating  her  happiness  and  I  am  comforted. 
I  remember  mj'  miserable  childhood.  Every  one  has  his 
day,  she  has  had  hers  ;  now  she  will  be  in  the  mud,  and 
I  —  I  shall  be  Comtesse  de  Forzheim  !  " 


216  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ASSETS    OF   THE    LEGITIMATE    WIFE. 

LiSBETH  started  for  the  rue  Plumet,  whither  she  went 
from  time  to  time  as  we  go  to  a  theatre  to  feast  our 
emotions. 

The  apartment  which  Hulot  had  selected  for  his  wife 
contained  a  large  antechamber,  a  salon,  dining-room, 
bedroom,  and  dressing-room.  The  dining-room  adjoined 
the  salon.  Two  servants'  rooms  and  a  kitchen  on  the 
third  floor  completed  the  establishment,  which  was  suit- 
able for  a  councillor  of  state  and  a  distinguished  member 
of  the  War  department.  The  house  itself,  the  courtyard 
and  staircase,  were  handsome.  The  baroness,  compelled 
to  furnish  her  salon,  bedroom,  and  dining-room  with  the 
relics  of  her  former  splendor,  had  taken  the  best  articles 
from  the  old  apartment  in  the  rue  de  I'Universite.  The 
poor  woman  loved  those  silent  witnesses  of  her  past  hap- 
piness ;  to  her  the}'  had  an  eloquence  that  was  half  con- 
soling. She  saw  in  the  faded  pattern  of  the  carpets, 
scared}'  visible  to  an}'  eye  but  hers,  the  memory  of  other 
flowers  of  which  they  were  the  symbol. 

Whoever  entered  the  vast  antechamber,  where  a  dozen 
chairs,  a  barometer,  a  large  stove,  and  long  curtains  of 
white  calico  bordered  with  red  recalled  the  barren  wait- 
ing-room at  a  ministry,  would  have  felt  chilled  to  the 
heart  at  the  thought  of  the  blank  solitude  in  which  this 


Cousin  Bette.  217 

woman  lived.  Grief,  like  pleasure,  makes  an  atmos- 
phere of  its  own.  The  first  glance  cast  on  a  home  i-e- 
veals  to  an  observing  eye  the  reign  of  love  or  of  despair. 
Adeline  was  usually  to  be  found  in  a  vast  bedroom,  fur- 
nished with  the  fine  work  of  Jacob  Desmalters  in  dap- 
pled mahogany,  decorated,  in  the  style  of  the  empire, 
with  bronzes  whose  effect  contrives  to  be  even  colder 
than  that  of  the  brasses  of  Louis  XVI.  Those  who 
loved  her  shuddered  to  see  the  loneh'  woman  sitting  in  a 
Roman  chair,  before  a  work-table  adorned  with  sphinxes, 
all  her  color  gone,  affecting  a  false  gayety,  yet  retaining 
her  dignity  of  manner,  just  as  she  preserved  the  gown 
of  dark  blue  velvet  which  she  wore  when  at  home.  The 
proud,  courageous  soul  supported  the  outward  body  and 
maintained  its  beaut}'.  B}'  the  close  of  the  first  3'ear 
of  her  exile  Madame  Hulot  had  measured  and  accepted 
the  full  extent  of  her  misfortune. 

"  In  banishing  me  to  this  place,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  m}^  Hector  has  given  me  more  than  a  simple  peasant- 
woman  had  the  right  to  expect.  He  requires  me  to  live 
thus  :  his  will  be  done  !  I  am  the  Baroness  Hulot,  sister- 
in-law  of  a  marshal  of  France  ;  I  have  done  no  wrong ; 
my  children  are  both  well  married  ;  I  can  await  death, 
wrapped  in  the  veil  of  a  wife's  honor,  —  in  the  weeds 
of  my  lost  happiness  !  " 

The  portrait  of  Hulot,  painted  b}-  Robert  Lefebvre  in 
1810,  in  the  uniform  of  his  rank  in  the  Imperial  Guard, 
hung  above  the  work-table,  where,  on  the  announce- 
ment of  a  visitor,  Adeline  was  wont  to  lock  up  a  copy 
of  the  "Imitation  of  Christ,"  which  she  now  read  habit- 
ually. Pure  and  irreproachable,  she  listened  like  Mag- 
dalen for  the  voice  of  the  Spirit  in  her  wilderness. 


218  Coicsm  Bette. 

"  Mariette,  my  good  girl,"  said  Lisbeth  to  tbe  cook, 
who  opened  tbe  door,  "  how  is  1113'  dear  Adeline?" 

"Apparently  well,  mademoiselle;  but  between  our- 
selves, if  she  persists  in  going  on  as  she  does  she  will 
kill  herself,"  whispered  Mariette.  "You  must  persuade 
her  to  live  better.  For  the  last  few  days  madame  has 
ordered  me  to  give  her  two  sous'  worth  of  milk  and  a 
single  roll  for  breakfast,  and  either  a  herring  or  a  bit 
of  cold  veal  for  dinner.  She  has  one  pound  of  meat 
cooked  to  last  a  week,  —  for  the  days  on  which  she 
dines  at  home  alone,  I  mean.  She  won't  spend  more 
than  ten  sous  a  day  for  her  food.  She  is  not  reason- 
able. If  I  were  to  mention  it  to  Monsieur  le  marechal 
he  might  get  angry  with  Monsieur  le  baron  and  disin- 
herit him  ;  but  j'ou,  who  are  so  kind  and  so  clever,  you'll 
know  how  to  settle  matters." 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  to  the  baron  3'ourself  ? "  asked 
Lisbeth. 

"Ah,  my  dear  ladj",  it  is  nearly  a  month  since  he 
was  here,  —  in  fact,  not  since  the  last  time  you  came. 
Besides,  madame  forbade  me  to  ask  money  of  monsieur, 
and  threatened  to  dismiss  me  if  I  did.  But  oh  !  what 
trouble  the  poor,  dear  lad}'  is  in  !  This  is  the  first  time 
monsieur  has  neglected  her  quite  so  long.  Ever}'  time 
the  porter's  bell  rings  she  runs  to  the  windov\^ ;  for  the 
last  few  da3'S  she  has  scared}'  had  strength  to  leave 
her  chair.  She  sits  and  reads.  When  she  goes  to  dine 
with  Madame  la  comtesse  she  always  says,  '  Mariette, 
if  monsieur  comes,  tell  him  I  am  at  home,  and  send  the 
porter  after  me  at  once ;  say  I  will  pay  him  well.' " 

"  My  poor  cousin  !  "  said  Bette ;  "it  breaks  my 
heart !     I  speak  of  her  to  the  baron  every  day  ;  but 


Cousin  Bette.  219 

what  good  does  that  do  ?  He  replies  :  '  You  are  right, 
Bette  ;  I  know  I  'm  a  villain.  My  wife  is  an  angel,  and  I 
am  a  monster.  I  '11  go  to-morrow.'  And  that 's  the  end 
of  it.  He  stays  with  Madame  Marneffe.  That  woman 
is  ruining  him  ;  but  he  worships  her ;  he  can't  live  out 
of  her  sight.  I  do  what  I  can.  If  I  were  not  there,  and 
if  I  did  n't  have  Mathurine,  the  baron's  expenses  would 
be  double  what  they  are.  He  is  so  pressed  for  money 
that  he  might  have  blown  his  brains  out  before  now  if  I 
had  not  looked  after  matters ;  and,  Mariette,  it  would  kill 
Adeline,  —  I  know  that.  I  tiy  to  keep  things  together, 
and  prevent  the  baron  from  squandering  everything." 

"Ah  I  that 's  what  m}'  poor  mistress  says.  She  knows 
her  obligations  to  3'ou,"  answered  Mariette.  "  She  told 
me  once  she  had  long  misjudged  you." 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Lisbeth.  "  Did  she  say  anything 
else?" 

"  No,  mademoiselle.  If  you  want  to  give  her  pleas- 
ure, talk  to  her  of  monsieur.  She  thinks  you  so  fortu- 
nate because  3'ou  see  him  ever}^  day." 

"  Is  she  alone?  " 

"  No  ;  the  marechal  is  there.  He  comes  every  da}^, 
and  she  always  tells  him  she  has  seen  Monsieur  le  baron 
in  the  morning,  and  that  he  won't  be  in  till  late  at  night." 

"Is  there  a  good  dinner  to-da}-?"  inquired  Bette. 

Mariette  hesitated,  she  evaded  Bette's  glance,  and  at 
that  moment  the  door  of  the  salon  opened  and  Marechal 
Hulot  came  through  the  antechamber  so  hastity  that  he 
bowed  to  Bette  without  recognizing  her,  and  as  he  did 
so  he  dropped  some  papers.  Bette  picked  them  up  and 
ran  to  the  stairway  as  if  to  return  them,  for  it  was 
useless  to  call  to  a  deaf  man  ;  but  she  managed  not  to 


220  Comin  Bette. 

overtake  him,  and  came  back  still  holding  the  papers, 
on  which  she  furtivel}^  read  what  follows,  written  in 
pencil :  — 

"My  DEAR  BROTHER,  —  My  husband  has  given  me  the 
usual  sum  for  my  quarterly  expenses  ;  my  daughter  Hortense 
was  in  such  need  of  money  that  I  lent  it  all  to  her,  though 
it  was  scarcely  enough  to  relieve  her  embarrassment.  Can 
you  lend  me  a  few  hundred  francs?  —  for  I  don't  want  to  ask 
more  of  Hector;  I  could  not  bear  that  he  should  blame  me." 

"Ah!"  thought  Lisbeth,  "she  must  be  in  great 
straits  if  her  pride  comes  down  to  that." 

Lisbeth  entered  Adeline's  room,  caught  her  in  tears, 
and  sprang  to  kiss  her. 

"Adeline,  dear  child,  I  know  all,"  said  Bette.  "  See, 
the  marshal  dropped  this  paper,  he  was  so  troubled,  he 
was  in  such  a  hurry.  That  wretched  Hector  has  not 
given  3'ou  any  monej"  since  —  " 

"He  pays  it  punctually,"  said  the  baroness,  "but 
Hortense  needed  some  and  —  " 

"  — and  you  have  nothing  to  buy  a  dinner  with;  I 
see  it  all,"  said  Bette,  interrupting  her.  "Now  I  un- 
derstand Mariette's  embarrassment  when  I  asked  her 
about  it.  Don't  be  a  child,  Adeline ;  let  me  lend  you 
m}'  savings." 

"  Thank  3'ou,  my  dear,  good  Bette,"  answered  Ade- 
line, wiping  awa}'  her  tears.  "  This  little  trouble  is 
only  momentar}' ;  I  have  provided  for  the  future.  My 
expenses  will  onl}'  be  twenty-four  hundred  francs  a  year 
in  future,  including  rent,  and  I  shall  have  that  sum. 
But  say  nothing  to  Hector,  Bette.     Is  he  well?" 

"  Well  ?  I  should  think  so  !  as  sound  as  the  pont  Neuf, 


Cousin  Bette.  221 

and  as  gay  as  a  lark.     He  thinks  of  nothing  but  that 
sorceress  Valerie." 

Madame  Hulot  looked  at  a  great  silver  fir-tree  which 
stood  within  range  of  the  window,  and  Lisbeth  was  un- 
able to  read  the  expression  of  her  eyes. 

"Did  you  remind  him  that  this  was  the  da}''  we  all 
dine  together?  "  asked  Adeline,  presently. 

"Yes,  but  Madame  Marneffe  gives  a  grand  dinner 
at  which  she  expects  to  get  Coquet's  resignation,  and 
he  thinks  that  more  important.  Now,  Adeline,  listen 
to  me ;  you  know  m}^  rigid  principles  about  indepen- 
dence. Your  husband,  m}'  dear,  will  ruin  3'ou.  I  have 
tried  to  shield  you  from  that  woman,  but  she  is  utterly 
depraved,  she  can  get  things  done  by  3-our  husband 
that  will  end  by  disgracing  your  name." 

Adeline  started  as  if  a  dagger  had  pierced  her  heart. 

"  My  dear  Adeline,  I  know  it.  Must  I  enlighten 
you?  Well,  at  an}'  rate,  we  ought  to  think  of  the  fu- 
ture !  The  marshal  is  old,  but  he  will  live  long  ;  he  has 
a  fine  salar}',  and  his  widow,  when  he  dies,  will  have  a 
pension  of  six  thousand  francs.  With  that  sum  I  could 
and  would  maintain  3'ou  all.  Use  your  influence  with 
him  to  make  me  his  wife.  It  is  not  because  I  want  to 
be  Madame  la  marechale  that  I  have  thought  of  this,  but 
to  get  bread  for  3'ou  in  the  future.  I  see  plainlj^  that 
if  30U  are  giving  Hortense  all  you  have  she  must  be  in 
want." 

The  marshal  entered  at  this  moment ;  the  old  soldier 
had  done  his  errand  so  rapidly  that  he  was  mopping  his 
forehead  with  a  handkerchief. 

"  I  have  given  two  thousand  francs  to  Mariette,"  he 
whispered  to  his  sister-in-law. 


222  Cousin  Bette. 

Adeline  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  Tears 
hung  on  her  eyelashes,  which  were  still  long,  and  she 
silentl}'  pressed  the  hand  of  the  old  man,  whose  face  ex- 
hibited a  J03'  like  that  of  a  happ}'  lover. 

"  I  was  thinking,  Adeline,  of  spending  that  very  sum 
on  a  present  for  30U  ;  therefore,  instead  of  returning  it; 
3'oa  must  choose  whatever  3-ou  would  like  best." 

He  took  the  hand  that  Lisbeth  held  out  to  him,  and 
kissed  it,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  pleasant  thoughts  of 
what  he  had  done. 

"  That  is  promising,"  Adeline  remarked  to  Lisbeth, 
smiling  as  much  as  she  was  now  able  to  smile. 

Just  then  young  Hulot  and  his  wife  appeared. 

'  •  Does  m}-  brother  dine  at  home  ? "  asked  the  mar- 
shal in  a  curt  tone. 

Adelhie  took  a  pencil  and  wrote  on  a  little  square  of 
paper : — 

'•  I  expect  him  ;  he  promised  to  dine  here  to-day  ;  if 
he  does  not  come  he  is  detained  at  the  AYar  office ;  he 
is  overwhelmed  with  business." 

She  gave  the  paper  to  the  marshal ;  it  was  her 
method  of  conversation  with  the  old  man,  and  a  sup- 
pi}^  of  little  squares  of  paper  with  a  pencil  were  alwaj's 
ready  on  her  work-table. 

"Yes,  1  know,"  answered  the  marshal,  "he  has  a 
great  deal  to  attend  to  about  Algiers." 

Hortense  and  Wenceslas  now  arrived ;  seeing  the 
famih^  assembled  about  her,  the  baroness  glanced  at 
the  marshal  with  an  expression  whose  meaning  was  lost 
on  all  but  Lisbeth. 

Happiness  had  greatly  improved  the  artist,  who  was 
adored  ))y  his  wife,  and  flattered  by  society.     His  face 


Cousin  Bette.  223 

had  filled  out ;  his  elegant  figure  set  ofl"  the  man}- 
advantages  ^vbich  blood  bestows  on  a  thorough-bred 
gentleman.  His  premature  fame,  and  the  misleading 
praises  which  society  flings  at  an  artist  very  much  as 
we  sa}'  good-day  or  speak  of  the  weather,  had  given 
him  that  consciousness  of  his  own  merits  w^hich  degen- 
erates into  conceit  if  real  power  leaves  a  man.  The 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  honor  was  in  his  eyes  a  crown- 
ing testimonial  to  the  great  genius  which  he  believed 
himself  to  be. 

After  three  years  of  marriage  Hortense,  in  her  rela- 
tions with  her  husband,  was  very  much  what  a  dog  is 
with  his  master ;  she  replied  to  all  his  movements  with 
a  look  which  seemed  a  question ;  her  e3'es  were  ever  on 
him  as  a  miser  looks  at  his  gold  ;  her  admiring  self- 
abnegation  was  touching  to  see.  The  advice  and 
example  of  her  mother  were  noticeable  in  all  her 
ways.  Her  beauty,  as  great  as  ever,  was  now  height- 
ened, poeticall}^,  by  the  soft  shadows  of  an  inward 
grief 

As  Lisbeth's  e\-es  encountered  her  young  cousin,  she 
fancied  that  some  hidden  plaint,  long  contained,  was 
about  to  burst  the  frail  bonds  of  discretion.  Ever  since 
the  days  of  the  honeymoon  Bette  had  been  confident 
that  the  joung  household  had  too  small  an  Income  to 
support  so  great  a  love. 

Hortense,  as  she  kissed  her  mother,  exchanged  with 
her,  from  mouth  to  ear  and  from  heart  to  heart,  a  few 
words  w4iose  meaning  w^as  betrayed  to  Bette  by  the 
movement  of  their  heads. 

*' Adeline  is  going  to  work,  like  me,  for  a  living," 
thought  Bette.     '-I  will  make  her  tell  me  what  she 


224  Cousin   Bette. 

means  to  do.    Those  pretty  fingers  have  come  at  last, 
like  mine,  to  hard  labor." 

At  six  o'clock  the  family  went  to  dinner.  The  baron's 
plate  was  laid. 

"Leave  it,"  said  the  baroness  to  Mariette.  "  Mon- 
sieur is  often  late." 

"  My  father  is  coming,"  said  J'oung  Hiilot  to  his 
mother.    "He  told  me  so  as  we  left  the  Chamber." 

Lisbeth,  like  a  spider  at  the  centre  of  her  web, 
watched  her  victims.  Knowing  Hortense  and  Victorin 
from  their  birth,  the  faces  of  both  were  transparencies 
through  which  she  could  read  their  souls.  From  cer- 
tain glances  which  Victorin  cast  furtively  at  his  mother 
she  felt  certain  that  some  misfortune  was  hanging  over 
Adeline  which  her  son  hesitated  to  reveal.  The  3'oung 
and  already-  celebrated  lawj-er  was  seemingly  depressed. 
His  deep  veneration  for  his  mother  was  traceable  in  the 
gloom  with  which  he  looked  at  her.  Hortense  was  evi- 
dently preoccupied  with  her  own  troubles ;  Lisbeth 
knew  that  for  the  last  fifteen  da3's  she  had  felt  those 
first  anxieties  that  poverty  inflicts  on  upright  people, 
especiall}^  on  young  women  hitherto  accustomed  to 
prosperity  who  feel  bound  to  conceal  their  uneasiness. 
From  the  first,  Bette  had  felt  quite  certain  that  Adeline 
had  not  given  her  daughter  the  mone}'.  The  scrupu- 
lous Adeline  had  therefore  condescended  to  the  specious 
falsehoods  by  which  borrowers  obtain  loans. 

The  depression  of  the  son  and  daughter  and  the  pro- 
found sadness  of  the  motlier  made  the  dinner  a  sad  one. 
Three  persons  alone  enlivened  the  scene,  —  Lisbeth, 
Celestine,  and  Wenceslas.  His  wife's  love  had  devel- 
oped a  Polish  vivacity  in  the  once  melancholy  artist, 


Cousin  Bette.  225 

—  the  vivacit}'  of  the  Gascon  nature,  the  good-natured 
liveliness  which  characterizes  those  Frenchmen  of  the 
North.  The  tone  of  his  mind  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  revealed  his  belief  in  himself  and  his  surround- 
ings, and  plainh'  showed  that  poor  Hortense,  faithful  to 
the  counsels  of  her  mother,  had  hidden  all  her  domestic 
troubles  from  him. 

"You  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  j'our  mother," 
said  Bette  to  her  3'oung  cousin  as  they  left  the  table, 
"  for  having  got  you  out  of  trouble  with  that  money 
she  gave  you." 

"  Mamma  !  "  exclairjed  Hortense,  astonished.  "  Oh, 
poor  mamma!  to  whom  I  long  to  be  able  to  give  mone}-! 
Bette,  you  don't  know  the  truth.  AVell,  I  will  tell  you  : 
I  have  a  dreadful  suspicion  that  mamma  is  working  for 
her  support." 

They  were  crossing  the  great  salon,  which  was  all 
in  darkness,  following  Mariette,  who  carried  the  lamp 
from  the  dining-room  to  Adeline's  bed-chamber.  At 
this  instant  Victorin  touched  Lisbeth  and  Hortense 
on  the  arm.  Understanding  the  significance  of  the 
act,  they  allowed  Wenceslas,  Celestine,  the  marshal, 
and  the  baroness  to  precede  them  into  the  bedroom, 
and  drew  back  themselves  into  the  embrasure  of  a 
window. 

' '  What  is  the  matter,  Victorin?  "  asked  Lisbeth.  ''  I '11 
wager  it  is  some  disaster  3'our  father  has  caused." 

"Alas,  yes,"  answered  Victorin.  "A  mone3'-lender 
named  Vauvinet  has  notes  to  the  amount  of  sixt}^  thou- 
sand francs  signed  by  m\'  father,  and  means  to  sue  him. 
I  tried  to  speak  about  this  miserable  business  to  my 
father  to-day  in  the  Chamber,  but  he  would  not  under- 

15 


226  Cousm  Beffe. 

stand  me  ;  he  seemed  to  avoid  me.  Ought  I  to  warn 
m}'  mother?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Lisbeth  ;  "  she  has  too  many  troubles 
ah'eady.  It  would  kill  her.  She  must  be  spared.  You 
don't  know  what  a  position  she  herself  is  in.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  your  uncle  you  would  have  found  no 
dinner  here  to-day." 

"Good God!  Victorin,  we  are  both  selfish  monsters!" 
said  Hortense  to  her  brother.  "  Lisbeth  tells  us  what 
we  ought  to  have  guessed  —  " 

Hortense  could  sa}'  no  more  ;  she  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth  to  stifle  a  sob,  and  wept. 

"  I  told  Vauvinet  to  come  and  see  me  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," conthmed  Victorin.  "But  he  won't  be  satisfied 
with  m}^  endorsement.  Such  men  want  cash  to  float  their 
transactions." 

"  Let  us  sell  our  Funds,"  said  Lisbeth  to  Hortense. 

' '  What  good  would  that  do  ?  "  said  Victorin.  ' '  Thev 
only  amount  to  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand  francs,  and 
sixt}'  is  needed." 

"Dear  cousin!"  cried  Hortense,  kissing  Bette  with 
the  warmth  of  a  pure  heart. 

"No,  Lisbeth;  keep  3'our  little  fortune,"  said  Vic- 
torin, pressing  her  hand.  "I  will  find  out  to-morrow 
exactly  what  the  man  is  after,  and  then,  if  my  wife 
consents,  I  will  hinder  —  perhaps  prevent  —  the  suit. 
My  father's  reputation  assailed  !  It  would  be  dreadful ! 
What  would  be  thought  at  the  War  oflfice  !  His  salarj- 
is  assigned  over  to  a  creditor  for  three  3'ears,  and  the 
time  does  not  expire  till  December ;  consequent!}'  that 
security  is  not  available.  Vauvinet  has  renewed  the 
notes  eleven   times ;   and   therefore  just  imagine  what 


Cousin  Betfe.  227 

sums  my  father  has  paid  as  interest  upon  them  !  That 
gulf  must  be  closed." 

"  If  Madame  Marneffe  would  onlj^  leave  him  ! "  said 
Hortense,  bitterl3\ 

"God  forbid  !  "  said  Victorin.  "  My  father  would  go 
elsewhere,  and  perhaps  spend  more  than  he  does 
now." 

What  a  change  was  this  in  the  minds  of  children  once 
so  respectful,  so  trained  by  their  mother  to  an  absolute 
worship  of  their  father  !    They  judged  him  now. 

"If  it  were  not  for  me,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  your  father 
would  be  even  worse  off  than  he  is." 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  said  Hortense.  "  Mamma  is  so  keen 
she  will  suspect  something ;  and  as  our  dear  Lisbeth 
says,  we  must  be  cheerful." 

"Victorin,  you  don't  know  where  3'our  father  will 
drag  you  with  his  passion  for  women,  if  you  endeavor 
to  settle  his  mone}*  matters,"  said  Lisbeth.  "Better 
think  of  getting  future  support  by  marrying  me  to  the 
marshal.  Speak  to  him  about  it  to-night.  I  will  go 
away  early  to  leave  you  free." 

Victorin  entered  the  bedroom. 

"Well,  my  poor  child,"  whispered  Bette  to  Hortense, 
"  what  do  3'ou  intend  to  do?  " 

"  Come  and  dine  to-morrow,  and  we  will  talk  of  it," 
answered  Hortense.  "  I  don't  know  which  wa}"  to  turn. 
You,  who  have  had  such  experience  of  the  trials  of  life, 
you  must  advise  me." 

While  the  assembled  family  endeavored  to  preach  mar- 
riage to  the  marshal,  and  Lisbeth  was  returning  to  the 
rue  Vanneau,  an  event  happened  of  a  kind  which  stim- 
ulates in  women  like  Madame  Marneffe  the  energies  of 


228  Cousin  Bette, 

vice  by  forcing  them  to  display  all  the  resources  of  their 
clepravit3\  Let  lis  recognize,  however,  one  unfailing 
fact :  in  Paris  life  is  too  bus}^  for  vicious  persons  to  do 
evil  from  instinct ;  the}^  defend  themselves  from  attack 
b}'  the  help  of  vice,  —  thj^t  is  all. 


Cousin  Bette.  229 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

MILLIONS    REDIVIVUS. 

Madame  Marxeffe,  whose  salon  was  filled  with  wor- 
shippers, had  just  started  the  whist-tables  when  the  foot- 
man, an  old  soldier  enlisted  h\  the  baron,  announced : 
"Monsieur  le  Baron  Montez  de  Montejanos." 

Valerie's  heart  underwent  a  violent  commotion  ;  but 
she  sprang  quicklj-  to  the  door  of  the  room,  exclaiming, 
"My  cousin!"  When  she  reached  the  Brazilian  she 
whispered  hurried!}',  "Be  a  relation,  or  all  is  over 
between  us  ! " 

"  My  dear  cousin  !  "  she  continued,  leading  the  new- 
comer to  the  fireplace,  "is  it  possible  3'ou  were  not 
shipwrecked  as  they  told  me  ?  I  mourned  3'ou  for  three 
3ears  —  " 

"  Good  evening,  ni}^  dear  friend,"  said  Marneflfe, 
giving  his  hand  to  the  Brazilian,  whose  dress  and  de- 
meanor was  that  of  a  true  Brazilian  millionnaire. 

Monsieur  le  Baron  Henri  Montez  de  Montejanos,  en- 
dowed b}'  equatorial  climates  with  the  color  and  form 
which  we  expect  in  a  stage  Othello,  was  sombre  and 
reall}'  alarming  to  the  63^6,  —  an  eflfect  pureh^  plastic,  for 
his  gentle,  tender  nature  predestined  him  for  the  machi- 
nations which  feeble  women  practise  upon  strong  men. 
The  disdainful  expression  of  his  face,  the  muscular 
power  shown  by  his  well-knit  frame,  in  fact  all  his 
signs  of  strength  were  displa}-ed  toward  men  only, — 


230  Cousin  Bette. 

a  flattery  addressed  to  women  which  the  sex  appre- 
ciates with  such  delight  that  a  lover  of  this  kind  with 
his  mistress  on  his  arm  has  all  the  air  of  a  triumphant 
matador.  Superbl}^  dressed  in  a  blue  coat  with  mas- 
sive gold  buttons,  black  trousers,  elegant  boots  of  irre- 
proachable polish,  and  gloved  in  the  last  fashion,  the 
new-comer  nevertheless  exhibited  his  Brazilian  orio;in 
by  an  enormous  diamond  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  which  shone  like  a  star  on  a  blue  silk  cravat, 
framed  b}^  a  white  waistcoat  half  opened  to  show  a 
shirt  of  exquisite  fineness.  His  forehead,  round  and 
prominent  like  that  of  a  faun  (sign  of  obstinac}'  in  the 
passions) ,  was  surmounted  b\'  a  forest  of  jet-black  hair, 
and  beneath  it  glittered  two  clear,  tawnj'  e3'es  which 
suggested  that  the  baron's  mother  might  have  been 
frightened  before  his  birth  b}'  a  leopard. 

This  splendid  specimen  of  the  Portuguese  race  in 
Brazil  placed  himself  with  his  back  against  the  corner 
of  the  fireplace  in  an  attitude  that  betrayed  a  Parisian 
training.  Hat  in  hand,  with  one  arm  resting  on  the 
velvet  shelf,  he  leaned  toward  Madame  Marneff'e  and 
talked  in  a  low  voice,  paying  little  or  no  attention  to 
what  he  considered  the  horribly'  common  set  of  people 
who  filled  the  salon  in  so  inopportune  a  way. 

This  arrival,  and  the  air  and  manner  of  the  Brazilian 
awakened  precisel}"  the  same  sentiment  of  curiosit}'  min- 
gled with  anguish  in  Crevel  and  in  the  baron.  Both 
wore  the  same  expression  of  face,  each  had  the  same 
presentiment.  Their  motions,  inspired  by  mutual  real 
passion,  became  so  comical  from  the  simultaneousness  of 
their  gj-mnastics  that  a  smile  crossed  the  faces  of  all 
who  were  clever  enough  to  understand  the  revelation. 


Cousin  Bette.  231 

Unluckily  for  himself,  Crevel,  always  the  shopkeeper 
though  ma3'or  of  Paris,  continued  the  attitude  rather 
longer  than  the  baron,  who  caught  that  involuntary 
revelation  of  Crevel's  passion  as  it  were  on  the  wing.  It 
was  another  arrow  in  the  heart  of  the  amorous  old  man, 
who  resolved  on  the  spot  to  have  an  explanation  with 
Valerie. 

"  To-night,"  said  Crevel  to  himself  in  the  same  spirit, 
arranging  his  cards,  "I  shall  bring  matters  to  a  crisis." 

"You  led  hearts,"  cried  Marneffe,  "but  you  have 
just  refused  them." 

"Oh,  excuse  me,"  answered  Crevel,  picking  up  his 
cards.  "  That  baron,"  he  continued  thinking  to  himself, 
"  strikes  me  as  interfering.  Valerie  may  live  with  Hulot, 
—  that's  part  of  my  vengeance,  and  I  know  how  to  get 
rid  of  him, — but  a  cousin!  a  baron  too  many! — I 
won't  be  made  a  fool  of,  —  I  shall  insist  on  knowing 
what  sort  of  relation  he  really  is." 

That  evening,  by  a  piece  of  luck  which  happens  only 
to  prett}^  women,  Valerie  was  charmingl}^  dressed.  Her 
white  skin  shone  through  the  meshes  of  Venetian  point 
whose  russet  tones  brought  out  the  ivor}^  satin  of  her 
beautiful  shoulders  so  characteristic  of  Parisian  women, 
who  acquire  superb  flesh  (by  what  process  is  still  un- 
known), and  yet  retain  the  elegance  of  their  figures. 
She  wore  a  robe  of  black  velvet  which  seemed  at  times 
to  be  slipping  from  the  shoulders,  and  her  hair  was 
arranged  with  lace  and  flowers.  Her  arms,  which  were 
round  and  dimpled,  issued  from  short  sleeves  ruffled 
with  falls  of  lace.  She  was  like  those  fine  fruits  tempt- 
ingl}'  arranged  on  a  prett}'-  dish,  whose  juices  eat  into  the 
steel  of  the  knife  that  cuts  them. 


232  Cousin  Bette. 

"Valerie,"  said  the  Brazilian  in  the  young  woman's 
ear,  "I  have  come  back  faithful  to  30U.  My  uncle  is 
dead,  and  I  am  twice  as  rich  as  I  was  when  I  went 
away.  I  wish  to  live  and  die  in  Paris  —  near  3'ou,  and 
for  you !  " 

"  Speak  lower,  Henri,  for  heaven's  sake  !  " 

"  Bah !  I  must  speak  to  3^ou  if  I  have  to  throw  the 
whole  company  out  of  the  window  —  especiall}^  after 
searching  Paris  for  two  da3's  to  find  3'ou.  I  can  stay 
after  the}^  leave,  can  I  not?" 

Valerie  smiled  on  her  pretended  cousin  as  she  said  : 
"  Kemember  that  3'ou  are  the  son  of  a  sister  of  m3' 
mother,  who  married  3'our  father  during  Junot's  cam- 
paign in  Portugal." 

"  I,  Montez  de  Montejanos,  descendant  of  the  con- 
querors of  Brazil,  do  you  ask  me  to  lie !  " 

"  Speak  lower,  or  we  must  part." 

"Why?" 

"  Marneflfe,  like  dying  men  who  are  possessed  with  a 
last  fanc3',  has  grown  jealous  —  " 

"That  lacke3M  "  said  the  Brazilian,  who  knew  his 
Marneffe.     "I  will  buy  him  off." 

"'  How  violent  3'ou  are  ! " 

"Ha!  how  did  3'ou  get  all  this  luxury?"  cried  the 
Brazilian,  suddenl3'  taking  note  of  the  elegant  salon. 

She  laughed. 

"  What  bad  taste,  Henri !  "  she  said. 

She  had  just  caught  two  angr3'  glances  flaming  with 
jealousy,  which  compelled  her  to  look  straight  at  her 
two  victims  writhing  in  pain.  Crevel,  who  was  playing 
against  the  baron  and  Monsieur  Coquet,  had  Marneffe 
for  a  partner.     The  part3'  were  equall3'  matched,  be- 


Cousin  Bette.  233 

cause  on  either  side  the  baron  and  Crevel  had  lost  their 
heads,  and  made  blunder  after  blunder.  The  two  old 
men  betrayed  in  a  single  moment  the  passion  which 
Valerie  had  succeeded  in  making  them  hide  for  three 
years.  One  thing,  however,  she  was  unable  to  do  ;  she 
could  not  extinguish  in  her  eyes  the  jo}'  of  again  seeing 
the  man  who  had  once  stirred  her  heart,  the  object  of 
her  first  passion.  The  rights  of  such  happy  mortals 
live  as  long  as  the  woman  who  has  once  granted  them. 

In  the  midst  of  the  three  passions  contending  around 
her,  one  rel3'ing  on  the  insolence  of  mone}',  another  on  the 
rights  of  possession,  and  the  third  on  youth,  strength, 
wealth,  and  primary  claims,  Madame  Marneffe  contin- 
ued calm  and  imperturbable,  like  General  Bonaparte  at 
the  siege  of  Mantua,  when  he  had  two  armies  to  deal 
wdth  in  blockading  the  place.  Jealous}'  convulsing  old 
Hulot's  face,  made  it  as  terrible  as  the  late  Marechal 
Montcornet  heading  a  charge  of  cavalry  on  the  Russian 
lines.  In  his  well-known  capacity'  as  a  handsome  man 
the  baron  had  never  felt  the  pangs  of  jealous}',  just  as 
Murat  never  knew  fear.  He  was  always  certain  of  vic- 
tory. His  defeat  in  the  matter  of  Josepha,  the  first  de- 
feat of  his  life,  he  attributed  to  her  thirst  for  money  ;  he 
said  he  was  vanquished  by  a  million,  not  by  an  abortion, 
alluding  to  the  Due  d'Herouville.  But  the  philters  and 
the  vertigos  that  come  of  the  mad  passion  now  rushed 
over  his  heart  in  a  moment.  He  turned  from  the  whist- 
table  to  the  chimney-piece  with  a  movement  a  la  Mira- 
beau,  and  when  he  laid  down  his  cards  to  look  fixedly 
at  the  Brazilian  and  Valerie,  those  about  him  felt  some 
fear,  mingled  with  curiosity,  lest  the  anger  now  sup- 
pressed  should   burst   forth   violently.      The   spurious 


234  Cousin  Bette. 

cousin  looked  down  on  the  baron  as  if  lie  were  examin- 
ing a  Chinese  image.  The  situation  could  not  last 
without  ending  in  a  frightful  outburst.  Marneffe  was 
afraid  of  Hulot,  for  he  dreaded  the  loss  of  his  influence  ; 
dying  men  cling  to  life  as  the  galley-slaves  long  for 
liberty.  The  man  was  determined  to  be  head  of  his 
division  at  any  cost.  Very  naturally  alarmed  at  the 
pantomime  of  the  two  old  men,  he  rose,  whispered  to 
his  wife,  and  then,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  every 
one,  Valerie  went  into  her  bedroom  followed  by  her  hus- 
band and  the  Brazilian. 

''Did  Madame  Marneffe  ever  speak  to  you  of  that 
cousin?"  asked  Crevel  of  Baron  Hulot. 

"Never!"  answered  the  baron,  rising.  "We  have 
played  enough  for  to-night,"  he  added.  "  I  have  lost 
two  louis,  and  here  they  are." 

He  threw  the  gold  pieces  on  the  table  and  sat  down 
on  the  sofa  with  an  air  which  the  compan}^  iuterpreted 
as  a  sign  that  the}^  should  disperse.  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Coquet  after  exchanging  a  few  words  with 
each  other  left  the  room,  and  Claude  Vignon  in  despair 
followed  them.  These  departures  started  the  rest  of 
the  compan}-,  who  felt  they  were  in  the  way,  and  the 
baron  and  Crevel  were  presently  left  alone.  The}'  said 
nothing  to  each  other.  Hulot,  forgetting  Crevel's  pres- 
ence, went  on  tiptoe  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  but 
instantly  made  a  sudden  and  prodigious  jump  back- 
ward as  Monsieur  Marneffe  opened  it  and  came  out 
with  a  calm  face,  apparently  much  surprised  to  find 
only  the  two  men. 

"  Where 's  the  tea?  "  he  said. 

*'  Where  is  Valerie?"  asked  the  baron,  furiousl3\ 


Cousin  Bette.  235 

"My  wife?"  said  Marneffe,  "she  has  gone  upstairs  to 
your  cousin's  apartment ;  she  will  be  back  presently." 

"  Why  has  she  left  us  in  this  way?" 

"Why?"  said  Marneffe.  "  Because  Mademoiselle 
Lisbeth  has  just  returned  from  dining  with  your  wife, 
and  she  was  seized  with  indigestion  ;  Mathurine  came 
to  get  some  tea  for  her  from  Valerie,  who  ran  up  to  see 
what  was  the  matter." 

"  Where  is  that  cousin?  " 

"  He  has  gone." 

"  Do  3'ou  believe  that?  "  asked  the  baron. 

"  I  have  just  put  him  in  his  carriage,"  said  Marneffe, 
with  a  hideous  smile. 

The  baron,  considering  Marneffe  a  cipher,  left  the 
room  and  went  up  to  Lisbeth's  apartment.  A  thought 
darted  through  his  brain,  such  as  a  heart  inflamed  by 
jealousy  sometimes  sends  there.  Marneffe's  depravity 
was  well  known  to  him,  and  he  suddenly  suspected  an 
ignominious  collusion  between  husband  and  wife. 

"Where  has  everybody  gone  ?  "  asked  Marneffe,  find- 
ing himself  alone  with  Crevel. 

"When  the  sun  sets  the  birds  roost,"  said  Crevel, 
"  Madame  Marneffe  disappeared,  her  adorers  likewise. 
Everybody  has  gone  home.  Let  us  play  piquet,"  he 
added,  determined  to  remain. 

The  baron  ran  quickly  upstairs  to  Bette's  apartment ; 
but  the  door  was  locked,  and  the  inquiries  and  answers 
took  enough  time  for  two  clever  women  to  get  up  a 
scene  of  indigestion  relieved  by  tea.\  Lisbeth  was  evi- 
dently suffering  and  Valerie  was  anxious,  so  anxious 
that  she  scarcely  noticed  the  baron's  furious  entrance. 
Illness  is  a  screen  which  women  often  set  up  between 


236  Cousin  Bette. 

themselves  and  the  wind  of  a  quarrel.  Hiilot  looked  all 
round  the  room  but  could  see  no  place  in  which  to  hide 
a  Brazilian. 

"  Your  indigestion,  Bette,  is  a  compliment  to  my 
wife's  dinner,"  he  said,  looking  pointedly  at  the  old 
maid,  who  was  perfectly  well,  though  endeavoring  to 
imitate  certain  convulsions. 

"See  how  luck}'  it  is  that  dear  Bette  lives  in  this 
house  !  If  I  had  not  got  to  her  at  once  she  might  have 
been  alarminglj-  ill,"  said  Valerie. 

"You  look  as  if  3'ou  thought  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  me,"  said  Lisbeth  addressing  the  baron ; 
"it  would  be  infamous  if  — " 

"  Wln^?  "  demanded  the  baron,  "  do  you  know  what 
brings  me  here  ?  "  and  he  leered  at  the  lock  of  the  dress- 
ing-room door  from  which  the  key  had  been  taken. 

"Are  3'ou  talking  Greek  ?  "  said  Madame  Marneffe, 
with  a  heart-rending  expression  of  tenderness  and  in- 
jured feeling. 

"It  is  because  of  3'ou, — 3'es,  actualh'  your  fault, 
my  dear  cousin,  that  I  am  in  this  state !  "  cried  Bette, 
vehemently. 

Her  cry  diverted  the  baron's  attention  and  he  gazed 
at  her  with  amazement. 

"■  You  know  that  I  am  vour  friend,"  continued  Lisbeth  j 
"  I  live  here,  isn't  that  a  proof  of  it?  I  have  spent  my 
last  strength  in  taking  care  of  your  interests  and  those 
of  our  dear  Valerie.  Her  household  expenses  cost  ten 
times  less  than  they  would  in  an}'  other  house  kept  up 
in  the  same  manner.  If  it  were  not  for  me,  cousin,  in- 
stead of  paying  two  thousand  francs  a  month,  you  would 
have  to  spend  three  or  four  thousand." 


Cousin  Bette.  237 

"  I  know  all  that,"  said  the  baron,  impatient!}'.  "  You 
help  us  in  more  v/ays  than  one,"  he  added  significantl}', 
approaching  Madame  Marneffe  and  taking  her  round 
the  throat ;  "is  n't  that  so,  ni}'  little  darling?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Valerie,  "  I  believe  3'ou  are 
crazy." 

"You  can't  doubt  my  attachment,"  cried  Lisbeth ; 
"but  I  also  love  m^'  cousin,  Adeline,  and  to-day  I 
found  her  in  tears.  She  has  not  seen  you  for  a  month. 
That 's  not  right.  You  leave  poor  Adeline  without 
means.  Your  daughter  Hortense  almost  fainted  away 
when  she  heard  there  would  have  been  no  dinner  to-da}' 
if  3'our  brother  had  not  lent  Adeline  some  monej'.  There 
was  nothing  but  dr^^  bread  in  your  house  this  morning ! 
Adeline  has  taken  the  heroic  resolution  to  support  her- 
self She  said  to  me,  '  I  will  do  as  you  have  done.' 
The  words  wrung  my  heart ;  I  thought  of  what  m}' 
cousin  was  in  1811  and  what  she  now  is  in  1841  !  the 
shock  stopped  ray  digestion.  I  came  home  thinking 
I  should  feel  better,  but  once  here  I  am  worse  —  " 

' '  Valerie !  j'ou  see  what  vaj  devotion  to  you  has 
brought  me  to!"  said  the  baron.  "It  makes  me 
guilty  of  domestic  crimes." 

"  Ah  !  I  did  well  to  remain  single  !  "  cried  Bette,  with 
savage  ]o}\  "Y"ou  are  a  good  and  kind  man,  and 
Adeline  is  an  angel,  and  this  is  the  reward  of  blind 
devotion." 

"  An  old  angel,"  said  Madame  Marneffe,  genth^  with 
a  glance  half-tender,  half-mocking  at  her  Hector,  who 
was  still  watching  her  as  a  detective  watches  a  supposed 
criminal. 

"Ah,  poor  woman!"  said  the  baron;  "I  have  not 


238  Cousin  Bette. 

given  her  any  mone}^  for  nine  months,  and  3^et  I  can 
find  plenty  for  you,  Valerie  —  at  what  cost !  You  will 
never  be  loved  as  I  love  3'ou,  and  in  return  what 
distress  you  cause  me  !  " 

"  Distress?"  she  answered.  "  Is  that  what  j^ou  call 
the  happiness  I  confer  upon  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  yet  know  what  3'our  relations  have  been 
with  that  sham  cousin  of  whom  3'ou  never  told  me," 
said  the  baron,  paying  no  attention  to  the  phrases 
which  Valerie  interjected.  When  he  entered  the  room 
it  was  like  a  stab  in  m}^  heart.  Blinded  as  I  have  been 
I  am  not  a  blind  man  ;  I  could  read  in  3'our  eyes  and 
in  his.  Sparks  flew  from  that  monke3'-face  to  jours 
and  3'ou  looked  —  oh  !  you  never  gave  me  such  a  look, 
never  !  As  for  this  mj'stery,  Valerie,  it  shall  be  brought 
to  light.  You  are  the  onlj^  woman  who  has  made  me 
feel  the  emotion  of  jealousy,  therefore  you  need  not  be 
surprised  at  what  I  say,  —  I  perceive  still  another  mj's- 
ter}^;  a  secret  which  has  burst  its  veil,  and  it  seems  to  me 
infamous  —  " 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  cried  Valerie. 

"  Crevel,  that  mound  of  flesh  and  folly,  loves  jon, 
and  you  receive  his  attentions  so  well  that  the  fool  has 
betrayed  his  passion  before  everybod}- ." 

"That's  the  third!  have  3'Ou  found  any  more?" 
demanded  Madame  Marneffe. 

"There  may  be  more,"  said  the  baron. 

"  Suppose  Monsieur  Crevel  does  love  me?  a  man  has 
a  right  to  do  that.  If  I  favored  his  passion  it  would  be 
the  act  of  a  coquette  or  of  a  woman  who  wants  more 
than  you  can  give  her.  Well,  either  love  me  with  all 
my  faults  or  leave  me.     If  3'ou  give  me  back  mj'  libert3^ 


Cousin  Bette.  239 

neither  yon  nor  Monsieur  Crevel  shall  ever  enter  m}" 
doors.  I  shall  take  my  cousin  so  as  not  to  lose  the 
charming  habits  which  3^on  attribute  to  me.  Adieu, 
Monsieur  le  baron  Hulot." 

She  rose ;  but  the  old  man  caught  her  by  the  arm 
a:nd  made  her  sit  down  again.  He  could  not  replace 
Valerie  ;  she  had  become  a  more  imperious  necessity 
than  even  the  common  needs  of  life,  and  he  felt  he 
would  rather  remain  in  a  state  of  uncertainty  than 
obtain  the  slightest  proof  of  her  infidelity. 

"  M}-  dear  Valerie,"  he  said,  "  do  you  not  see  how  I 
suflE'er?  I  onl}'  ask  you  to  justify'  3'ourself,  —  give  me 
good  reasons  —  " 

"Well,  go  and  wait  for  me  downstairs;  I  don't 
suppose  3'ou  want  to  be  present  at  what  I  have  to 
do  for  your  cousin." 

Hulot  withdrew  slowh'. 

"  Old  libertine  !  "  cried  Bette,  as  he  left  them,  "  3'ou 
liave  not  asked  me  about  your  children  !  What  do  3'ou 
mean  to  do  for  Adeline  ?  To-morrow  I  shall  take  her 
my  poor  savings." 

"  A  man  owes  his  wife  a  support,  at  least,"  said 
Madame  Marneffe,  smiling. 

The  baron,  not  offended  by  Lisbeth's  speech,  which 
arraigned  him  as  sharph'  as  Josepha's  had  done,  went 
hastily  awa}'  like  one  who  wanted  to  avoid  an  incon- 
venient question. 

The  bolt  once  slipped  behind  him,  the  Brazilian  was 
let  out  of  the  dressing-room  where  he  was  waiting  ;  tears 
were  in  his  e^'es  and  his  state  of  mind  was  pitiable  to 
see.     He  had  heard  all. 


240  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SCENES    OF    HIGH    FEMININE    COMEDY. 

"You  have  ceased  to  love  me,  Henri ;  alas  !  I  see  it," 
said  Madame  Marneffe,  hiding  her  face  in  her  handker- 
chief, and  bursting  into  tears.  ^ 

It  was  a  cry  of  real  love.  The  clamor  of  a  woman's 
distress  is  so  persuasive  that  it  wrings  a  pardon  from 
the  heart  of  every  lover  if  she  is  3^oung  and  prett}^ 

"  If  you  love  me,  why  not  give  up  everything  for  m}^ 
sake?"  demanded  the  Brazilian. 

This  child  of  transatlantic  Nature,  logical  like  all 
men  bred  in  Nature's  bosom,  took  up  the  conversation 
at  the  point  where  he  had  left  it,  passing  his  arm 
around  Valerie's  waist. 

"  You  ask  why?  "  she  said,  raising  her  head  to  look 
at  him,  and  quelling  him  b}'  a  glance  overflowing  with 
love.  "  Because,  my  treasure,  I  am  married  ;  because 
we  are  in  Paris  and  not  on  the  pampas,  not  in  the  soli- 
tudes of  America.  My  kind  Henri,  my  first,  my  only 
love,  listen  to  me  !  This  husband  of  mine,  a  sub-director 
at  the  War  office,  wishes  to  be  head  of  his  department 
and  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor.  Can  I  prevent 
him  from  being  ambitious?  Now,  for  exactly  the  same 
reason  that  he  once  left  3'ou  and  me  free  to  follow  our 
wishes  (nearly  four  years  ago,  3'ou  cruel  fellow ! )  he 


Coiisin   Bette,  241 

now  compels  rae  to  take  Hulot.  I  can't  get  rid  of  that 
dreadful  official  —  who  puffs  like  a  walrus  and  is  sixty- 
three  years  old,  and  hateful  to  me,  and  who  has  grown 
ten  years  older  in  the  last  three  years  —  until  the  day 
when  Marneffe  is  head  of  his  department  and  officer 
of  the  Legion  of  honor  —  " 

"  What  else  is  3'our  husband  to  get?  " 

"Three  thousand  francs." 

"I'll  give  him  an  annuity  for  that  amount,"  said 
Baron  Montez.     "  Come,  let  us  leave  Paris  and  go  —  " 

''Where?"  said  Valerie,  with  one  of  those  pretty 
pouts  hy  which  women  tease  the  men  of  whom  they  are 
sure.  "Paris  is  the  only  city  where  it  is  possible  to 
live  happ3'.  I  care  too  much  for  our  love  to  allow  it  to 
weaken  by  living  alone  with  you  in  a  desert.  Hear  me, 
Henri ;  you  are  the  onl}'  man  in  all  the  universe  whom 
I  ever  loved  —  write  that  on  your  tiger  skull." 

Women  always  persuade  the  men  whom  they  have 
turned  to  sheep  that  they  are  lions  and  tigers  with  iron 
wills. 

' '  You  must  listen  to  me.  Monsieur  Marneffe  has  n't 
five  years  to  live ;  he  is  rotten  to  the  marrow  of  his 
bones ;  out  of  twelve  months  in  the  year  he  spends 
seven  swallowing  drugs  ;  he  is  swathed  in  flannel :  in 
short,  the  doctors  say  the  scythe  may  cut  him  down  at 
any  moment ;  the  slightest  illness,  one  that  could  not 
harm  a  sound  man,  will  be  his  death ;  his  blood  is  cor- 
rupt, vitality  is  attacked  at  its  source.  Some  da}^  and 
it  is  not  far  off,  I  shall  ])e  a  widow.  Well,  I,  who  am 
already  asked  in  marriage  by  a  man  with  sixt}'  thousand 
francs  a  3'ear,  I,  who  can  manage  that  man  just  as  I 
can  this  bit  of  sugar,  I  declare  to  you  that  if  you  were 

16 


242  Cousin   Bette, 

poor  like  Hulot,  leprous  like  Marneffe,  and  even  if  you 
were  to  beat  me,  it  is  you  alone  that  I  love  and  whose 
name  I  wish  to  bear.  I  am  ready  to  give  you  ever}' 
proof  of  love  that  you  can  ask  —  " 

"Well  then,  to-night  —  " 

"But,  child  of  Rio,  my  beautiful  leopard  who  has 
come  to  me  from  the  virgin  forests  of  Brazil/'  she  said, 
taking  possession  of  his  hand  and  fondling  it,  "  respect 
the  woman  whom  you  wish  to  make  your  wife  —  Shall 
I  be  your  wife,  Henri?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  conquered  by  the  wild  garrulity  of 
her  passion. 

He  knelt  at  her  feet. 

"Henri,"  said  Valerie,  taking  both  his  hands  and 
looking  fixedh^  into  his  eyes,  "•  swear  to  me  now,  in 
presence  of  Lisbeth,  my  best  and  only  friend,  m}^  sis- 
ter, that  you  will  marry  me  at  the  end  of  m}'  year  of 
widowhood." 

"I  swear  it!" 

"That  is  not  enough.  Swear  it  by  the  ashes  and 
the  eternal  salvation  of  3'our  mother  —  swear  it  by  the 
Virgin  Mar}'  and  by  3'our  Christian  hope." 

Valerie  knew  well  that  the  Brazilian  would  keep  that 
oath  even  though  she  were  sunk  in  the  deepest  social 
degradation.  He  took  the  solemn  vow,  his  brow  almost 
touching  her  white  bosom,  his  eyes  spell-bound  ;  he  was 
drunk,  drunk  as  a  man  is  when  he  sees  a  beloved 
woman  after  long  absence. 

"  Well  then,  be  content.  Respect  your  future  wife. 
Don't  spend  a  farthing  on  me ;  I  forbid  it.  Remain 
here  in  the  front  room,  you  can  sleep  on  the  little  sofa ; 
I  will  come  back  myself  and  tell  3'ou  when  you  can  come 


Cousin  Bette.  243 

down.  We  will  breakfast  together,  and  3'ou  may  leave 
at  one  o'clock  as  though  you  had  been  paying  me  a 
morning  visit.  There  is  nothing  to  fear ;  the  porters 
are  devoted  to  me.  Now  I  must  go  down  and  pour 
out  tea." 

She  made  a  sign  to  Lisbeth,  who  accompanied  her  to 
the  landing.  There,  Valerie  whispered  in  the  old  maid's 
ear. 

"My  blackamoor  has  come  back  too  soon!  I  shall 
die  if  I  don't  aA^enge  you  on  Hortense." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  you  dear  little  devil ;  "  said  Bette, 
kissing  her  on  the  forehead.  "When  love  and  ven- 
geance run  in  couples  they  never  miss  their  goal.  I  am 
to  meet  Hortense  to-morrow ;  she  is  in  great  poverty. 
Wenceslas  would  kiss  you  a  thousand  times  to  get  a 
thousand  francs." 

When  Hulot  left  Valerie  he  went  down  to  the  porter's 
lodge  and  came  suddenly  on  Madame  Olivier. 

"Madame  Olivier?" 

Hearing  this  imperative  call  and  observing  the  ges- 
ture by  which  it  was  enforced,  Madame  Olivier  came  out 
of  her  den  and  followed  the  baron  to  a  corner  of  the 
courtyard. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  if  any  one  can  help  your  son 
to  get  a  notary's  practice  it  is  I  ?  It  is  owing  to  me 
that  he  completed  his  law  studies  and  got  into  a  no- 
tary's office  at  all." 

"  Yes,  monsieur  le  baron,  and  monsieur  can  count  on 
our  gratitude.  There  is  never  a  da}^  that  I  don't  pray 
to  God  for  blessings  on  monsieur  le  baron." 

"  Fewer  words,  m}^  good  woman,"  said  Hulot,  "  and 
more  deeds." 


244  Cousin  Bette, 

"  What  must  we  do?" 

"A  man  came  here  to-night  in  a  carriage.  Do  you 
know  him?" 

Madame  Olivier  had  recognized  Montez  ;  in  fact  she 
could  hardly  have  forgotten  a  man  who  slipped  five 
francs  into  her  hand  every  time  he  left  the  rue  du 
Doyenne  a  little  too  early  in  the  morning.  If  the  baron 
had  chanced  on  Olivier  he  might  perhaps  have  learned 
the  truth ;  but  Olivier  had  gone  to  bed.  Among  the 
lower  classes  the  woman  is  not  only  superior  to  the  man, 
but  she  almost  alwaj's  rules  him.  Madame  Olivier  had 
long;  decided  on  her  course  in  ease  their  two  benefac- 
tors  quarrelled  ;  she  looked  upon  Madame  Marneffe  as 
the  stronger  of  the  two  powers. 

"  Do  I  know  him?  "  she  said.  "No  —  I  never  saw 
him  before." 

"Nonsense;  Madame  Marneffe's  cousin  must  have 
gone  to  see  her  when  she  lived  in  the  rue  du  Doj^enne." 

"  Oh  !  was  it  her  cousin  ?  "  exclaimed  Madame  Olivier. 
"  It  may  have  been,  for  I  did  not  see  his  face.  I  '11  pay 
attention,  monsieur,  next  time  —  " 

"  He  will  come  down  by  and  by,"  said  the  baron, 
hastil}'. 

' '  But  he  has  gone,"  said  Madame  Olivier,  who  now 
understood  the  matter,  "  the  carriage  is  not  here." 

"  Did  3'ou  see  him  go?  " 

"Yes,  and  he  said  to  the  servant,  '  To  the  embassy.'  '^ 

Her  tone,  and  the  assurance  she  gave  him,  brought  a 
sisfh  of  relief  from  the  baron's  breast ;  he  took  Madame 
Olivier's  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  Madame  Olivier,  but  that's 
not  all ;  how  about  Monsieur  Crevel?  " 


Coumi  Bette.  245 

"Monsieur  Crevel?  What  do  you  mean?  I  don't 
understand,"  answered  Madame  Olivier. 

"He  loves  Madame  Marneffe." 

"It  isn't  possible,  Monsieur  le  baron!"  she  ex- 
claimed, clasping  her  hands. 

"  He  loves  Madame  Marneffe,"  repeated  Hulot,  im- 
peratively. "Plow  do  they  manage?  I  don't  know; 
but  I  mean  to  know,  and  so  must  3'ou.  If  you  can 
put  me  on  the  track  of  that  intrigue  your  son  is  a 
notar3^" 

"Monsieur  le  baron,  don't  let  3'our  blood  boil  that 
wa}^,"  answered  Madame  Olivier.  "  Madame  loves  you 
and  only  3'ou  ;  her  waiting-maid  knows  that,  and  we  of- 
ten talk  of  it ;  she  says  you  are  the  happiest  of  men,  for 
you  know  Madame's  value.  Ah !  she 's  perfection ! 
She  rises  at  ten  o'clock  every  day ;  then  she  break- 
fasts —  good  ;  then  it  takes  her  an  hour  or  more  to 
dress  ;  and  that  brings  us  to  about  two  o'clock ;  after 
that  she  walks  in  the  Tuileries  in  sight  of  everybod}' 
and  comes  home  punctually  at  four  o'clock,  —  your  hour 
for  coming.  Oh !  it  is  all  as  regular  as  clock-work. 
She  has  no  secrets  from  her  maid,  and  Reine  has  none 
from  me ;  she  could  n't  have  an}-,  because  of  my  son, 
with  whom  she 's  in  love.  So  you  see  that  if  Madame 
had  an}'  relations  with  Monsieur  Crevel  we  should  cer- 
tainly know  it." 

The  baron  returned  to  Madame  Marneffe's  apartment 
with  a  beaming  face,  convinced  that  he  was  the  only 
lover  of  that  odious  courtesan,  as  beautiful,  as  graceful 
and  as  deceitful  as  a  siren. 

Crevel  and  Marneffe  were  just  beginning  their  second 
game   of  piquet.     Crevel  lost  as   men   lose   who   are 


246  Cousin  Bette. 

paying  no  attention  to  their  pla}'.  Marneffe,  who  knew 
the  causes  of  the  mayor's  absent-mindedness,  profited 
without  scruple ;  he  glanced  at  the  cards  to  be  taken, 
and  "discarded"  accordingly;  then  overlooking  his 
adversaria's  game  he  played  sure.  The  stake  was 
twenty  sous,  and  he  had  thus  stolen  thirty  francs 
before  the  baron  re-entered  the  room. 

"Well!"  said  Hulot,  surprised  to  see  the  room 
empty,   "are  you  alone?    where  are  they  all?" 

"  Your  fine  temper  sent  everybody  flying,"  replied 
Crevel. 

"No,  it  was  the  arrival  of  my  wife's  cousin,"  said 
Marneffe.  "  The  company  thought  that  Valerie  and 
Henri  must  have  something  to  say  to  each  other  after 
three  years'  absence,  so  they  discreetly  retired.  If  I 
had  been  here  I  should  have  kept  them  ;  but  that  would 
have  been  a  pity,  as  it  happened,  for  Lisbeth  who 
always  pours  out  tea,  was  taken  ill  —  " 

"  Is  she  really  ill?  "  interrupted  Crevel. 

"  They  said  so,"  replied  Marneffe,  with  cynical  in- 
difference. 

The  mayor  looked  at  the  clock  and  estimated  that 
the  baron  had  been  forty  minutes  with  Valerie.  His 
joj'ous  manner  incriminated  him,  together  with  Valerie 
and  Lisbeth,  in  Crevel's  mind. 

"I  have  just  seen  her;  she  suflfers  horribly,  poor 
girl,"  said  Hulot. 

"  The  suflferings  of  other  people  seem  to  please  you," 
replied  Crevel,  crossly  ;  "  3'ou  have  come  back  with  j'our 
face  radiant.  Is  Lisbeth  likel}'  to  die  ?  Your  daughter 
is  to  have  her  money,  they  say.  I  don't  know  you 
again ;    3'ou  went  out  with  a  face   like   the  Moor  of 


Cousin  Bette.  247 

Venice  and  \'ou  have  come  back  looking  like  Saint- 
Preux  —  I  should  like  to  see  Madame  Marneffe's 
face  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  Monsieur 
Marneffe,  gathering  up  his  cards  and  laying  them  before 
him. 

The  dim  eyes  of  the  decrepit  creature  lighted  up  ;  a 
faint  color  overspread  the  cold  and  flabby  cheeks  ;  he 
half-opened  the  black  lips  of  his  toothless  mouth,  from 
which  oozed  a  white  froth  looking  like  chalk.  The 
rage  of  the  impotent  man,  whose  life  hung  by  a  thread, 
and  who  risked  nothing  in  a  duel,  while  Crevel  risked 
all,  alarmed  the  mayor. 

"  I  said,"  answered  Crevel,  "  that  I  should  like  to  see 
Madame  Marneffe's  face,  and  all  the  more  because 
3'ours  has  a  particularly  disagreeable  expression  at  this 
moment.  On  my  word  of  honor,  you  are  frightfully 
ugly,  my  dear  Marneffe." 

"  Yon  are  not  polite." 

"  A  man  wlio  wins  thirty  francs  in  forty-five  minutes 
never  looks  handsome  to  me." 

"Ah,  if  3'ou  had  seen  me  seventeen  years  ago!" 
said  the  wreck. 

"  Were  you  fascinating? "  retorted  Crevel. 

"  That's  what  ruined  me.  If  I  had  managed  matters 
as  you  have,  I  should  be  peer  of  France  and  maj'or  at 
this  moment." 

"Yes,"  said  Crevel,  sneering,  "you  have  carried  the 
war  too  far.  I  save  up  gold  in  the  business,  but  3'ou 
swallow  its  drugs." 

Crevel  burst  out  laughing.  Marneffe  might  seem  to 
be   angry   about   his   wounded   honor,   but   he  alwaj's 


248  Cousin  JBette. 

took  such  vulgar  and  insulting  jokes  amiably.  The}' 
were  the  small  change  of  conversation  between  himself 
and  Crevel. 

"Eve  has  cost  me  dear,  I  admit/'  he  replied  ;  "  but  a 
short  life  and  a  merr}'  one,  that's  ni}'  motto." 

"  I  prefer  mine  long  and  happ}',"  replied  Crevel. 

At  this  moment  Madame  Marneffe  came  in,  saw  her 
husband  pla3ing  cards  with  Crevel,  and  the  baron  sit- 
ting apart,  all  three  alone  in  the  salon.  She  guessed 
from  a  first  glance  at  the  municipal  dignitary  the 
thoughts  that  were  agitating  his  breast,  and  she  de- 
cided instantly  on  her  course. 

"Marneffe,  dear!"  she  said,  leaning  on  her  hus- 
band's shoulder  and  passing  her  pretty  fingers  over  his 
sparse  gra}^  hairs  as  if  to  draw  them  together,  "it  is 
very  late  for  you ;  you  ought  to  be  in  bed ;  you  know 
what  the  doctor  said;  —  if  you  want  to  live,  3'ou  must 
take  care  ;  come,  leave  3'our  piquet." 

"  Let's  end  at  five  points,"  said  Marneffe  to  Crevel. 

"  Ver}'  good ;  I  have  two  already',"  replied  Crevel. 

"  How  long  will  it  take?  "  asked  Valerie. 

"  Ten  minutes." 

"It  is  already  eleven  o'clock,"  she  said.  "Really, 
Monsieur  Crevel,  one  would  think  3'ou  wanted  to  kill 
m}^  husband.     At  any  rate,  make  haste." 

The  double  meaning  of  the  speech  amused  Crevel, 
Hulot,  and  even  Marneffe  himself.  Valerie  crossed  the 
room  to  Hector. 

"Go  awa}^  now,  my  dearest,"  she  whispered,  "and 
walk  down  the  rue  Vanneau ;  then  come  back  when 
3'Ou  see  Crevel  leave  the  house." 

' '  I  would  rather  only  leave  the  apartment  and  get 


Cousin  Bette.  240 

back  bj  the  door  into  3'our  dressing- room.     You  could 
tell  Reine  to  open  it  for  me." 

"  Reine  is  upstairs  taking  care  of  Lisbeth.'* 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  go  up  to  Lisbeth's  apartment.'* 

Either  Tva}^  was  perilous  for  Valerie,  who,  foreseeing 
that  she  must  come  to  an  explanation  with  Crevel,  did 
not  choose  to  have  Hulot  in  her  bedroom  where  he  could 
overhear  the  conversation ;  and  the  Brazilian  was  up- 
stairs. 

"Upon  m}"  word,  you  men,"  said  Valerie,  "when 
3'ou  get  a  notion  into  your  heads  would  burn  a  house 
down  to  force  an  entrance.  Lisbeth  is  not  in  a  stat^  to 
have  3^ou  up  there.  Are  you  afraid  of  getting  rheumat- 
ism in  the  street?     Come,  go;  or  good-b}^  to  you." 

"  Good-night,  gentlemen,"  said  the  baron  aloud. 

Touched  in  his  vanit}',  the  old  man  felt  bound  to  prove 
that  he  could  rival  a  young  lover  by  awaiting  the  happy 
moment  in  the  street. 

Marneffe  said  good-night  to  his  wife,  whose  hand 
he  took  with  a  show  of  tenderness.  Valerie  shook  his 
in  a  manner  that  meant,  "  Help  me  to  get  rid  of 
Crevel." 

"Good-night,  Crevel,"  said  Marneffe,  "I  hope  you 
won't  sta}'  long  with  Valerie.  I'm  jealous  —  it  has 
seized  me  late  but  it  holds  me  fast  —  I  shall  come 
back  presently'  and  make  sure  3'ou  are  gone." 

' '  We  have  business  to  discuss  ;  but  I  shall  not  sta}' 
long,"  said  Crevel. 

"Speak  low,  —  what  do  3'ou  want  of  me?"  said 
Valerie,  looking  at  Crevel  with  a  haught3'  and  con- 
temptuous eye. 

Meeting  her  glance,   Crevel,  who  had  rendered  im- 


250  Cousin  Bette. 

mense  services  to  Valerie  and  was  prepared  to  boast  of 
them,  became  suddenly  humble  and  submissive. 

"  That  Brazilian  —  "  he  stopped  short,  struck  dumb 
by  the  fixed  and  scornful  look  which  she  gave  him. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

' '  This  cousin  —  " 

"  He  is  not  m}'  cousin,"  she  replied,  "  he  is  my  cousin 
for  the  world  and  for  Monsieur  Marneffe.  Supposing 
he  were  my  lover,  you  have  no  right  to  say  anything. 
A  shopkeeper  who  bux's  a  woman  to  revenge  himself  on 
another  man  is,  in  my  opinion,  beneath  the  man  who 
buj's  for  love.  You  were  not  in  love  with  me  ;  but  you 
knew  I  was  Baron  Hulot's  mistress,  and  you  bought  me 
just  as  a  man  buj's  a  pistol  to  kill  his  adversary.  I 
wanted  3'our  mone\'  and  I  consented." 

"  But  you  have  not  fulfilled  the  bargain,"  said  Crevel, 
with  commercial  keenness. 

"  Ah  !  3'ou  want  Baron  Hulot  to  know  that  3'ou  have 
carried  off  his  mistress  in  revenge  for  Josepha.  Nothing 
could  better  prove  the  baseness  of  your  mind.  You  say 
3'OU  love  a  woman  ;  3'Ou  treat  her  like  a  duchess,  and 
then  3'Ou  want  to  publicl}^  disgrace  her!  My  good 
friend,  3^ou  are  right,  — this  woman  here  present  is  not 
the  equal  of  Josepha ;  Josepha  had  the  courage  of  her 
infam3",  whereas  I  am  a  h3^pocrite  who  ought  to  be 
whipped  in  the  market-place.  Alas !  Josepha  is  pro- 
tected b3'  her  cleverness  and  b3^  her  mone3',  but  I,  — m3^ 
only  fortune  is  m3^  honor ;  I  am  still  a  virtuous  and  re- 
spected bourgeoisC;  but  if  you  make  a  scandal  about  me 
what  shall  I  become?  If  I  had  mone3^  1  would  not 
care ;  but,  as  it  is,  T  have  onl}'  about  fifteen  thousand 
francs  a  3'ear,  —  " 


Cousin  Bette.  251 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  more,"  said  Crcvel.  "  Within 
the  last  two  months  I  have  doubled  3'our  investment  in 
the  Orleans  railway." 

"Well,  but  no  one  is  respected  in  Paris  until  he 
has  fifty  thousand  francs  a  3'ear.  You  can't  give  me 
the  equivalent  of  what  I  should  lose  in  throwing  over 
the  baron.  Do  you  ask  what  that  is  ?  —  why,  Marneffe's 
appointment  as  head  of  the  department ;  he  would  then 
have  six  thousand  francs  a  3'ear ;  he  has  been  twenty 
seven  j'ears  in  the  service,  and  in  three  more,  if  he  lives 
as  long,  I  should  have  a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred 
francs  when  he  dies.  You,  whom  I  have  overwhelmed 
with  favors,  with  happiness,  3'ou  are  not  willing  to 
wait  for  your  revenge  !  —  and  you  call  that  love  !  "  she 
cried. 

"I  may  have  begun  b}'  calculating  on  revenge,"  said 
Crevel,  "  but  I  have  ended  by  being  your  spaniel.  You 
trample  on  ni}^  heart,  3'ou  crush  me,  you  dumfound  me, 
and  3'et  I  love  3'ou  as  I  never  loved  before.  Valerie, 
I  love  you  as  much  as  I  love  Celestine.  I  am  capable 
of  anything  for  3'our  sake.  Say  that  instead  of  com- 
ing twice  a  week  to  the  rue  du  Dauphin,  3'OU  will  come 
three  times." 

"  Is  that  all !  realty,  3'ou  are  getting  3-outhful  again." 

"  Let  me  dismiss  Hulot  and  humiliate  him,"  urged 
Crevel.  "  Get  rid  of  him,  promise  you  will  not  see  that 
Brazilian  ;  be  mine  onty  —  3'ou  shall  not  repent  it.  In 
the  first  place  I  will  give  you  eight  thousand  francs  a 
3'ear,  —  an  annuit3^  oi^b';  ^^^  you  shall  have  the  capi- 
tal if  3^ou  are  faithful  to  me  for  five  years." 

' '  Always  making  bargains  !  a  bourgeois  never  knows 
how  to  give.     You  want  to  keep  up  relays  of  love  with 


252  Cousin  Bette, 

dividends  !  Ah,  shopkeeper  !  vender  of  hair-oils  !  you 
ticket  everything  with  its  price.  Hector  tokl  me  that 
the  Due  d'Herouville  brought  Josepha  the  certificate 
for  her  thirt}'  thousand  francs  a  3^ear  in  a  bag  of  sugar- 
pkims.  I  am  worth  six  times  as  much  as  Josepha. 
Ah !  to  be  loved !  "  she  said,  twisting  her  curls  before 
the  mirror.  "  Henri  loves  me,  he  would  kill  3'ou  like  a 
fly  at  a  sign  from  me.  Hulot  loves  me,  and  leaves  his 
wife  to  want.  But  you,  you  who  can  be  a  good  father 
and  look  after  your  family  and  yet  have  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  laid  by  outside  of  your  property  with 
which  you  might  do  Avhat  you  liked  —  " 

"  Valerie  !  I  offer  you  half  of  it,"  cried  Crevel,  falhng 
on  his  knees. 

"Are  3'ou  still  here?"  cried  Marneffe,  entering  in  his 
dressing-gown.     "  What  are  you  doing?  " 

"  He  is  begging  ni}-  pardon  for  an  insulting  speech," 
said  Valerie. 

Crevel  wished  he  could  drop  through  a  trap-door  as 
they  do  at  the  theatre. 

"  Eise,  my  dear  Crevel,  you  look  too  ridiculous,"  said 
Marneflje,  smiling.  "  I  see  b}-  Valerie's  face  that  there 
is  no  danger  for  me." 

"  Go  to  bed  and  sleep  in  peace,"  said  Madame  Mar- 
nefle  to  her  husband. 

"Isn't  she  clever?"  thought  Crevel ;  "  she  is  adora- 
ble !  how  she  got  out  of  it !  " 

When  Marneffe  had  disappeared,  the  ma3'or  seized 
Valerie's  hands  and  kissed  them,  moistening  them  with 
tears. 

"  I  will  put  it  all  in  your  name,"  he  said. 

"Ah!  that  is  love!"  she  whispered.     "Well,  love 


Cousin  Bette.  253 

for  love.  Hiiiot  is  down  below,  waiting  in  the  street. 
Poor  old  fellow,  he  expects  me  to  put  a  light  in  my  win- 
dow to  let  him  know  when  to  come.  I  permit  3'ou  to 
go  and  tell  him  3'0ii  are  the  one  I  love  ;  he  will  not  be- 
lieve 3'ou  ;  then  take  him  to  the  rue  du  Dauphin  and 
give  him  proofs.  I  permit  3'ou,  na}^  I  order  you  to  do 
so.  That  walrus  wears  me  out.  Keep  him  in  the  rue 
du  Dauphin  all  night,  tear  him  with  hot  pincers,  re- 
venge 3'ourself  for  Josepha.  Hulot  may  die  of  it,  but  if 
so  we  shall  save  his  wife  and  children  from  utter  ruin. 
Madame  Hulot  is  now  working  for  her  living  !  " 

"  Poor  lady  !  it  is  shameful !  "  cried  Crevel,  his  nat- 
ural good  feeling  coming  to  the  surface. 

"  If  you  love  me,  Celestin,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear 
as  her  lips  touched  it,  "keep  him  away,  or  I  am  lost. 
Marneffe  suspects  something,  and  Hector  has  the  key 
of  the  porte-cochere  and  expects  to  return." 

Crevel  pressed  her  in  his  arms  and  went  away  at  the 
summit  of  happiness.  Valerie  lovingly  accompanied 
him  to  the  landing;  then,  as  if  magnetized,  she  fol- 
lowed him  down  the  staircase. 

' '  My  Valerie  !  go  back  ;  do  not  compromise  yourself 
before  the  porters.  —  Go ;  my  life,  my  fortune,  my  all 
is  yours.  —  Go  back,  my  duchess  !  " 

"Madame  Olivier!  "  said  Valerie,  softly,  as  soon  as 
the  door  closed  on  Crevel. 

"  Wlw,  madame,  3'ou  here?  "  said  Madame  Olivier, 
amazed. 

"  Run  the  upper  and  lower  bolts,  and  don't  open  the 
door  to  an3'  one  —  no  matter  who." 

"  Very  well,  madame." 

As  soon  as  the  bolts  were  drawn  Madame  Olivier 


254  Cousin  Bette. 

recounted  the  attempt  of  the  baron  to  corrupt  her 
fidelit3^ 

"  You  behaved  like  an  angel,  my  dear  Olivier,"  re- 
plied Madame  MarnefFe,  "but  we  must  talk  of  all  that 
to-morrow." 

Valerie  ran  up  to  the  third  storj'  with  the  rapidity  of 
an  arrow  from  its  bow,  gave  three  little  knocks  on 
Lisbeth's  door,  and  then  returned  to  her  own  apartment 
where  she  gave  certain  orders  to  Reine  ;  no  Parisian 
waiting-maid  misses  such  an  occasion  as  the  return  of 
a  Montez  from  Brazil. 


Cousin   Bette.  255 


CHAPTER  XX. 

TWO    BROTHERS    OF   THE    GREAT   CONFRATERNITY    OF 
BROTHERHOODS. 

''  NO;  b}'  heaven  !  "  thought  Crevel  to  himself,  "  none 
but  women  of  the  world  can  love  like  that.  How  she 
came  clown  those  stairs,  her  eves  blazino",  fairlv  carried 
away!  Josepha  never —  Josepha  !  mere  scum  !  What 
did  I  sa}^  ?  scum  !  Heavens  !  suppose  I  were  to  let  slip 
such  a  word  at  the  Tuileries ?  No,  if  Valerie  doesn't 
train  me  I  shall  never  be  worth  anything  in  society  — 
I,  who  am  so  anxious  to  be  a  distinguished  man  !  What 
a  woman !  If  she  merely  looks  at  me  coldly  it  stirs  mj' 
inside  like  the  coHc  !  What  grace  !  what  wit !  Josepha 
never  gave  me  such  emotions !  What  hidden  perfec- 
tions !  —    Oh,  there  's  my  man  ! " 

In  the  shadows  of  the  rue  de  Babylone  he  beheld 
Hnlot,  with  his  head  down,  slipping  along  the  side  of 
some  buildings  in  process  of  construction,  and  he  went 
straight  up  to  him. 

' '  Good  morning,  baron  ;  for  it  is  past  midnight,  my 
dear  fellow.  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here,  walk- 
ing up  and  down  in  the  rain  ?  It  is  n't  wise,  at  our  age. 
Do  3'ou  want  me  to  give  j'ou  a  piece  of  good  advice  ? 
Let  us  both  go  home  ;  for,  between  ourselves,  you  won't 
see  that  light  in  the  window." 


256  Cousin  Bette. 

As  the  baron  heard  these  last  words  it  dawned  upon 
him  that  he  was  sixty-three  years  old,  and  that  his 
cloak  was  wet. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  he  said. 

"Valerie, — hang  it,  owr  Valerie,  who  wishes  to  be 
solety  my  Valerie.  That  puts  us  even,  and  we  '11  plaj^ 
for  the  rubber  when  you  like.  You  can't  be  angrj'',  for 
3^ou  know  it  was  agreed  I  should  take  my  revenge.  You 
spent  three  months  in  getting  Josepha  away  from  me, 
and  I  've  got  Valerie  in  —  however,  don't  let 's  talk  of 
that,"  he  added.  "Now,  I  intend  to  have  her  all  to 
m^'self.    But  we  need  n't  be  less  good  friends." 

"  Crevel,  don't  joke,"  said  the  baron,  in  a  choking 
voice.     "It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me." 

"Bless  me,  how  you  take  it!  Baron,  don't  3^ou  re- 
member what  I  said  to  3^ou  on  your  daughter's  wedding- 
day, —  wh}"  should  two  old  fellows  like  us  quarrel  for  a 
petticoat?  It's  plebeian,  vulgar,  low-bred;  3^ou  and  I 
belong  to  another  stripe,  —  regency,  blue  doublets,  Pom- 
padour, eighteenth  centur3%  regular  Richelieu;  we  are, 
and  I  dare  to  sa3'  it,  connoisseurs  in  women  !  " 

Crevel  might  have  strung  his  literar3^  terms  together 
for  some  time  longer,  for  the  baron  listened  as  deaf  men 
listen  when  their  infirmity  begins  ;  but  the  conqueror 
stopped  short,  seeing  the  ghastly  face  of  his  enem3^  by 
the  gleam  of  a  street  lamp.  The  news  fell  like  a  thun- 
derbolt on  the  baron,  after  the  assurances  of  Madame 
Olivier  and  Valerie's  last  look. 

"Good  God!  and  there  were  so  man3'  other  women 
in  Paris  ! "  he  said  at  last. 

"That's  what  I  told  you  when  3^ou  took  Josepha," 
retorted  Crevel. 


Cousm  Bette.  257 

-    "  Crevcl,  I  don't  believe  it;  it  is  impossible.     Give 
me  proofs.     Have  you  a  key,  as  I  have  ?  " 

And  the  baron,  by  this  time  before  the  house,  plunged 
the  ke}'  into  the  lock ;  but  the  door  was  immovable,  and 
he  began  to  shake  it. 

"  Don't  make  a  disturbance,"  said  Crevel,  coolly. 
"Come,  baron,  I  have  better  keys  than  3'onrs." 

"Proofs!  proofs!"  cried  the  baron,  exasperated  b}^ 
his  miser}^  till  he  seemed  crazy. 

"Follow  me,  and  I'll  give  them  to  30U,"  answered 
Crevel ;  and  then,  according  to  Valerie's  instructions, 
he  took  the  baron  toAvard  the  qua}'  b}^  the  rue  Hillerin- 
Bertin.  The  unfortunate  State  councillor  followed  him 
like  a  merchant  on  his  way  to  the  court  of  bankruptcT. 
He  was  lost  in  conjectures  as  to  the  motives  of  the 
depravity  at  the  bottom  of  Valerie's  heart,  and  he 
believed  himself  the  dupe  of  some  trickery.  As  they 
crossed  the  pont  Royal  a  sense  of  his  barren  life,  end- 
inof  in  nothino'uess  and  harassed  w^ith  financial  troubles, 
came  over  him,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  3'ielding  to 
the  temptation  to  throw  Crevel  into  the  river  and  spring 
after  him. 

AVhen  they  reached  the  rue  du  Dauphin,  which  in 
those  days  had  not  been  widened,  Crevel  stopped  before 
the  double  door  of  a  small  house.  This  door  opened 
upon  a  long  corridor  paved  with  black  and  white  mar- 
ble, which  formed  a  sort  of  portico,  at  the  end  of  which 
was  the  staircase  and  the  porter's  lodge,  lighted  from 
a  small  interior  court,  of  which  there  are  so  many  in 
Paris.  This  court,  w^hich  adjoined  that  of  the  next 
propert}',  was  noticeable  as  encroaching  on  the  latter. 
Crevel's  house  —  for  he  was  the  owner  of  the  dwelling 

17 


258  Cousin  Bette. 

—  had  an  addition  with  a  glass  roof,  which  was  built 
on  the  adjoining  lot  of  ground,  but  restricted  bj'  an 
injunction  from  being  raised  above  the  ground  floor ;  it 
was  therefore  entirely  hidden  from  sight  b}'  the  porter's 
lodge  and  the  projection  of  the  staircase. 

This  structure,  of  which  there  are  many  in  Paris, 
had  long  served  as  a  warehouse,  back-room,  and  kitchen 
to  one  of  the  two  shops  on  the  street.  Crevel  had  em- 
ployed Grindot  to  detach  the  three  rooms  and  turn  them 
into  a  small  dwelling.  It  could  be  entered  on  two 
sides :  first,  through  the  shop,  which  Crevel  let  to  a 
furniture-dealer,  at  a  low  rent,  and  by  the  month,  so 
that  he  might  turn  him  out  and  punish  him  for  the 
slightest  indiscretion  ;  and  then,  by  a  door  so  hidden 
in  the  wall  of  the  corridor  as  to  be  almost  invisible. 
With  the  single  exception  of  the  upholsterer,  all  the 
other  tenants  of  the  house  were  unaware  of  the  existence 
of  Crevel's  paradise.  The  portress,  paid  for  silence,  w\'is 
an  excellent  cook.  The  mayor  could  go  in  and  out  of 
this  isolated  retreat  at  all  hours  of  the  night  without 
dreading  suspicious  eyes.  In  the  da3'time  a  woman, 
dressed  as  a  Parisian  woman  dresses  to  go  shopping, 
and  furnished  with  a  key,  risked  nothing  in  visiting 
the  place;  she  entered  the  shop  as  if  to  make  a  pur- 
chase, and  left  it  without  exciting  suspicion  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  met  her. 

When  Crevel  had  lighted  the  candelabra  in  the  bou- 
doir the  baron  was  amazed  to  see  the  elegant  and 
coquettish  luxur}^  of  the  room.  The  ex-perfumer  had 
given  Grindot  carte-blanche  as  to  the  decorations,  and 
the  architect  of  by-gone  fame  had  produced  a  creation 
in  the  Pompadour  style  which  cost  his  employer  sixty 


Cousin  Bette.  259 

thousand  francs.  "I  want  it,"  Crevel  had  said  to 
Grindot,  "to  be  so  that  if  a  duchess  enters  the  place 
she  maj'  be  surprised  and  delighted."  He  meant  to 
have  a  perfect  Parisian  Eden  for  his  Eve,  his  woman 
of  the  world,  his  Valerie,  his  duchess. 

"There  are  two  beds,"  said  Crevel,  showing  a  sofa 
which  drew  out  like  the  drawer  of  a  bureau  and  formed 
a  bed.  "  Here  is  one  ;  the  other  is  in  the  next  room. 
So  we  can  both  pass  the  night  here." 

''  Proofs  !  proofs  !  "  cried  the  baron. 

Crevel  took  a  light  and  led  his  friend  into  the  bed- 
room, where,  on  a  sofa,  Hulot  saw  a  superb  dressing- 
gown  belonging  to  Valerie,  which  he  had  seen  her 
wear  in  the  rue  Vanneau.  The  mayor  touched  a  spring 
in  a  pretty  little  article  of  furniture  done  in  marquetrv, 
a  coffer  or  desk  called  bonheur  clu  joiu\  searched  for  a 
moment,  took  out  a  letter,  and  handed  it  to  the  baron. 

"Here,  read  that." 

The  councillor  of  state  read  the  following  note,  writ- 
ten in  pencil :  — 

"  I  have  waited  for  you,  my  old  scamp;  and  a  woman  like 
nie  is  not  born  to  wait  for  an  ex-perfumer.  There  was  no 
dinner  ordered,  no  cigarettes.     You  shall  pay  dear  for  this." 

"  Is  that  her  writing?  "  said  Crevel. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Hulot,  sitting  down  over- 
whelmed. I  recognize  all  she  ever  touched  —  her  slip- 
pers, her  caps  —     Ha,  how  long  is  it  since  —  " 

Crevel  made  a  sign  that  he  understood,  and  then 
took  a  bundle  of  bills  from  the  little  desk. 

"Here,  old  man,"  he  said;  "I  paid  the  builders  in 
December,  1838.  Two  months  earlier,  in  October,  we 
occupied  this  delightful  little  place." 


2(50  Cousin   Bette. 

Hulot  bowed  his  head.  "  How  could  it  be?  for  I 
know  how  every  hour  of  her  time  was  employed." 

"  Did  3^ou  know  how  she  walked  in  the  Tuileries?" 
asked  Crevel,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  What  of  that?  "  said  Hulot  bewildered. 

"Your  so-called  mistress  was  supposed  to  be  walk- 
ing in  the  gardens  from  one  to  four  o'clock,  but  two 
hours  of  that  time  she  was  here.  Do  3'ou  ever  read 
Moliere?  Well,  baron,  is  there  nothing  imaginary  in 
3'our  claims?" 

Hulot,  who  could  doubt  no  longer,  kept  a  threaten- 
ing silence.  Catastrophes  always  drive  intelligent  and 
strong-minded  men  into  philosoph3\  Morally,  the  baron 
was  like  a  man  seeking  his  wa}'  through  a  forest  by 
night.  But  such  gloom}"  silence  and  the  change  that 
came  over  his  sunken  countenance  frightened  Crevel, 
who  certainh'  did  not  wish  the  death  of  his  enem}'. 

"  It  is  just  as  I  told  you,  old  fellow,  we  are  even  ; 
let 's  play  the  rubber.  —  Don't  you  want  to  play  the 
rubber  ?  " 

"Wh}'  is  it,"  said  Hulot,  speaking  to  himself,  "that 
out  of  ten  handsome  women,  seven  at  least  are 
depraved  ?  " 

The  baron  was  too  upset  to  find  the  solution  of  this 
problem.  Beauty  is  the  highest  of  human  powers.  All 
power  without  counterpoise,  unshackled  and  autocratic, 
leads  to  abuse  and  to  lawlessness.  Arbitrar^^  power  is 
the  madness  of  rulers  ;  in  women  it  turns  to  caprice. 

"  You  are  not  to  be  pitied,  comrade;  3'OU  have  got 
the  most  beautiful  of  wives,  and  she  is  virtuous." 

"I  deserve  my  fate,"  said  Hulot.  "I  have  never 
valued  my  wife  ;  I  have  made  her  suffer,  and  she  is  in- 


Cousin  Bette.  261 

deed  an  angel.  She  suffers  there  alone,  in  silence  — 
yes,  she  is  worthy  of  adoration  —  of  love  —  and  I  will 
try  —  for  she  is  still  charming,  fair  and  fresh  as  a  young 
girl  —  but  was  there  ever  such  a  base,  vile,  infamous 
creature  as  that  Valerie?" 

*'  A  worthless  woman,"  said  Crevel :  "a  hussy  who 
ought  to  be  whipped  in  the  place  du  Chatelet ;  but  ni}' 
dear  Canillac,  we  ma}'  be  men  of  the  olden  time,  Riche- 
lieus.  Pompadour,  Dubarr}',  roues,  and  all  that 's  most 
eighteenth  centur}',  —  but  remember,  there  are  no 
longer  lettres  de  cachet !  " 

'•How  can  a  man  compel  a  woman  to  love  him?" 
said  Hulot,  thinking  aloud. 

"  It  is  nonsense  to  seek  to  be  loved,  m}'  dear  fellow, 
we  are  only  endured.  Madame  Marneffe  is  a  hundred 
times  more  depraved  than  Josepha  — " 

"And  more  grasping!  she  has  cost  me  mnet3'-two 
thousand  francs,"  cried  Hulot. 

"  And  how  man}'  sous?"  asked  Crevel,  with  the  in- 
solence of  a  full  purse,  thinking  the  sum  named  a  small 
one. 

"  I  see  you  don't  love  her,"  said  Hulot,  in  a  melan- 
choh'  tone. 

"I've  had  enough  of  her,"  said  Crevel;  "she  has 
cost  me  three  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  Where  has  all  that  mone}'  gone  to?  what  has  she 
done  with  it?  "  said  the  baron,  seizing  his  head  in  both 
hands. 

"  If  you  and  I  had  had  an  understanding  in  the  be- 
ginning, like  those  little  fellows  who  club  together  to 
keep  some  cheap  girl,  she  would  n't  have  cost  either  of 
us  so  much." 


262  Cousin  Bette. 

"That's  an  idea!"  said  the  baron;  "but  even 
then  she  would  trick  us.  What  do  you  think  of  that 
Brazilian,  mj'  good  fellow?" 

"  Ah,  you  old  fox,  you  are  right;  we  are  both  swin- 
dled like  —  like  stockholders,"  said  Crevel ;  "those 
women  are  a  regular  joint-stock  compan\'." 

"  So  it  was  she  who  told  you  of  the  light  in  the  win- 
dow ?  "  said  the  baron. 

"  Old  fellow,"  said  Crevel,  assuming  his  attitude, 
"3'ou  and  I  are  both  jockeyed  !  Valerie  is  a —  She  told 
me  to  keep  3'ou  here.  I  see  it  all !  she  is  with  that 
Brazilian.  Ah  !  I  '11  give  her  up  ;  for  if  I  held  her 
hands  she  'd  find  means  to  trick  me  with  her  feet.  She 
is  infamous,  wanton  —  " 

"  Worse  than  a  prostitute  !  "  said  the  baron  ;  "  Jose- 
pha  and  Jenny  Cadine  were  at  their  trade  in  deceiving 
us,  but  she  —  " 

"  Slie,  the  saint,  the  prude!"  cried  Crevel.  "Hulot, 
go  back  to  your  wife  ;  3'OU  don't  stand  well  in  money 
matters  ;  people  are  beginning  to  talk  of  certain  notes 
that  you  signed  for  Vauvinet.  As  for  me,  I  am  cured 
of  wanting  high-bred  women.  Besides,  at  our  age  win' 
should  we  run  after  such  hussies,  who,  to  tell  the  honest 
truth,  can't  help  deceiving  men  of  our  age.  You've 
got  false  teeth  and  white  hair,  and  I  look  like  Silenus. 
I  shall  take  to  accumulating  mone}'.  Mone\^  never  de- 
ceives, —  ever}'  six  months  3'OU  get  something  from  it ; 
but  women  cost  so  much  !  Ah,  mj'  dear  Gubetta,  m}' 
old  comrade,  if  it  concerned  only  you  I  'd  take  the  mat- 
ter —  well,  philosophicall}' ;  but  as  for  that  Brazilian, 
with  his  suspicious  foreign  wealth  — " 

"  Woman,"  said  Hulot,  "  is  an  inexplicable  being." 


Cousin  Bt'tte.  263 

'•  I  can  exi)laiii  her,"  remarked  Crevel ;  ''you  and  I 
are  old,  and  the  BraziUan  is  young  and  handsome." 

''True,"  said  Hulot,  '*  I  admit  we  are  growing  old. 
But,  my  good  friend  (how  are  we  ever  to  do  without  the 
j)retty  creatures,  looking  at  us  with  those  sh'  smiles  as 
tliey  curl  their  hair ;  grimacing  and  telling  lies,  ar 
complaining  that  we  don't  love  them  when  they  see  us 
troubled  about  matters,  and  coaxing  us  to  be  happy?"  ^ 

"Yes,  faith,  it  is  the  only  pleasant  thing  in  life,"  said 
Crevel.  "Ah!  when  a  pretty  face  smiles,  and  says, 
'  M\-  darling,  how  nice  you  ai-e  !  I  'm  not  one  of  those 
women  who  adore  young  fellows  with  pointed  beards, 
smoking  cigars  and  vulgar  as  lackeys,  —  the}'  are  in- 
solent because  the}'  are  young.  You  suspect  me  of 
coquetr}',  but  I  prefer  a  man  fifty  3'ears  old  to  such 
young  fty ;  he  is  faithful,  he  knows  a  woman  can't  be 
easih'  replaced,  he  appreciates  her  —  that's  wli}'  I  love 
you,  my  old  man.'  Ah!  when  they  say  that !  though 
it  is  all  false  —  " 

"  Falsehood  is  often  pleasanter  than  truth,"  said  Hu- 
lot, remembering  certain  charming  scenes  with  Valerie 
which  Crevel's  mimicry  evoked.  "She's  a  fairv  ;  she 
can  metamorphose  an  old  man  into  a  3'oung  one." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  continued  Crevel,  "  she  's  an  eel,  slipping 
through  your  fingers,  —  but  such  a  pretty  one  !  sweet 
and  white  as  sugar,  funny  as  Arnal,  and  clever ! 
Ah!—" 

"Clever,  yes,  clever  and  witty!"  cried  the  baron, 
who  no  longer  thought  of  his  wife. 

The  brethren  went  to  bed  the  best  friends  in  the 
world,  each  recalling  Valerie's  many  perfections,  the 
intonations  of  her  voice,  her  kittenish  ways,  her  ges- 


264  Cousin  Bette. 

tures,  her  droll  savings,  the  sallies  of  her  wit,  and  the 
out-flowings  of  her  heart,  —  for  this  artist  in  love  had 
moments  of  delightful  emotion,  like  tenors  who  sing  an 
air  on  some  days  better  than  on  others.  The  pair  went 
to  sleep  soothed  b}'  diabolic  reminiscences  full  of  temp- 
tation, and  lighted  b}"  the  fires  of  hell. 

The  next  moi'ning  at  nine  o'clock  Plulot  talked  of 
going  to  the  ministr}^  and  Ci'evel  of  going  out  of  town. 
They  left  the  house  together  and  Crevel  offered  his  hand 
to  the  baron  saying:  "  No  resentment,  I  hope?  —  for 
we  have  both  turned  our  backs  on  Madame  Marneffe." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  over  and  done  with,"  said  Ilulot,  with  an 
expression  of  disgust. 

At  half-past  ten  Crevel  was  puffing  up  Madame 
Marneffe's  staircase.  He  found  that  infamous  creature, 
that  adorable  enchantress,  in  a  most  coquettish  dress- 
ing-gown, eating  her  breakfast  in  company  with  Baron 
Montez  and  Lisbeth.  In  spite  of  the  shock  the  sight  of 
the  Brazilian  gave  him,  Crevel  asked  Madame  Marneffe 
to  see  him  alone  for  two  minutes.  Valeiie  took  him 
into  the  salon. 

"Valerie,  my  angel,"  said  the  infatuated  mayor, 
"Monsieur  Marneffe  has  not  long  to  live;  if  3'ou  will 
be  faithful  to  me  we  will  be  married  when  he  dies.  So 
make  up  your  mind  whether  that  Brazilian  is  worth 
more  than  a  mayor  of  Paris,  —  a  man  who,  for  your 
sake,  will  aspire  to  the  highest  dignities,  and  who  already 
possesses  eighty  and  some  odd  thousands  a  year." 

"  I  '11  think  of  it ;  "  she  said.  "  p:xpect  me  at  the  rue 
du  Dauphin  at  two  o'clock,  and  we  will  talk  about  it.  But 
be  prudent ;  and  don't  forget  the  transfer  3'ou  promised 
me  yesterda}'." 


Cousin   Bette.  265 

She  returned  to  the  dining-room,  followed  by  Crevel, 
who  flattered  himself  he  had  found  a  way  to  make  her 
wholh'  his  own  ;  and  there  they  found  Baron  Hulot,  who, 
during  their  short  colloqu\',  had  arrived  with  tlie  same 
purpose  in  view.  The  councillor  of  state  also  asked  for 
a  moment's  interview.  Madame  Marneffe  rose  again  to 
leave  the  room,  smiling  at  the  Brazilian  as  if  to  say, 
"  The}'  are  both  craz}',  —  don't  the}'  see  you/'' 

"Valerie,"  said  Hulot,  "my  dear  child,  this  cousin 
—  is  no  cousin  at  all." 

"  There,  that's  enough,"  she  cried,  interrupting  him  ; 
"  Marneffe  has  never  been,  never  will  be,  never  can  be 
my  husband.  The  first,  the  only  man  I  ever  loved  has 
come  back  without  warning  me,  — is  it  my  fault?  Look 
at  Henri  and  look  at  yourself,  and  then  say  if  a  woman, 
above  all  where  she  loves,  can  hesitate.  My  dear  friend, 
iVom  this  day  forth  I  decline  to  be  Susannah  with  the 
Elders.  If  you  and  Crevel  want  to  come  here,  you 
must  come  as  friends,  —  but  all  else  is  over  between 
us ;  I  am  twenty-six  years  old,  and  before  long  I  in- 
tend to  be  a  saint,  an  honorable  and  excellent  wife,  — 
like  yours." 

"  Is  that  how  you  receive  me?  "  asked  Hulot,  "  when 
I  come  here  like  a  pope  with  my  hands  full  of  indul- 
gences !  Well,  your  husband  shall  never  be  the  head 
of  his  division  nor  an  officer  of  tlie  Legion  of  honor." 

"We  will  see  about  that,"  said  Madame  Marneffe, 
looking  at  Hulot  in  a  peculiar  manner. 

"  Don't  let  us  get  angry,"  cried  the  baron,  in  despair. 
"  I  '11  come  to-night  and  then  we  will  make  it  all  up." 

•'  Come  to  Lisbeth's  apartment,  then." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  amorous  old  man. 


266  Cousin  Bctte. 

Hulot  and  Crevel  left  the  bouse  togetlier  without 
saving  a  word  until  tiie}'  reached  the  street ;  once 
there,  they  looked  at  each  other  and  both  laughed 
lugubriously. 

''  We  are  two  old  fools  !  "  said  Crevel. 

"  I  have  got  rid  of  them,"  said  Madame  Marneffe  to 
Lisbeth  as  she  returned  to  the  breakfast-table.  "  I  never 
have  loved,  never  shall  love  any  but  my  leopard,"  she 
added,  smiling  at  Henri  JMontez.  ''Lisbeth,  dearest, 
you  don't  know ;  I  must  tell  you  that  Henri  has  for- 
given me  all  the  infamies  to  which  povertj'  reduced 
me." 

"•  It  was  my  fault,"  said  the  Brazilian,  "  I  ought  to 
have  sent  you  money." 

"  Poor  child  that  I  was,"  cried  Valerie,  "  I  ought  to 
have  worked  for  a  living ;  but  m}'  fingers  were  never 
made  for  that,  — ask  Lisbeth." 

Tiie  Brazilian  departed  the  happiest  of  men. 

Towards  midday  Valerie  and  Lisbeth  were  gossiping 
in  the  splendid  bedroom,  where  its  dangerous  mistress 
was  bestowing  those  last  touches  on  her  toilet  which  a 
woman  gives  with  her  own  fingers.  Drawnng  the  bolts 
and  curtains  carefully,  Valerie  related,  to  their  minutest 
detail,  the  events  of  the  evening,  of  the  night,  and  of 
tjje  morning. 

"Are  you  satisfied,  my  jewel?"  she  said  to  Lisbeth, 
as  the  tale  ended.  "Which  shall  I  be,  Madame  Crevel 
or  Madame  Montez?    What  do  you  advise?" 

"  Crevel  can't  live  more  than  ten  years,  old  libertine 
that  he  is,"  answered  Lisbeth,  "and  Montez  is  ,young. 
Crevel  will  leave  you  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year. 
Let  JMontez  wait ;  he  will  be  happy  enough  as  a  Ben- 


Cousin   Bette.  2G7 

jainin.  When  \ou  are  thirty-three  3011  will  be  as  hand- 
some as  ever,  and  then  3'ou  can  marry  your  Brazihan 
and  pla}'  a  great  role  with  his  mone\-,  especiall}'  if  you 
are  under  the  wing  of  Madame  la  marechale." 

"Yes,  but  Montez  is  Brazilian,"  remarked  Valerie; 
"  he  '11  never  be  anything  in  societ}'." 

"These  are  the  days  of  railroads,"  said  Lisbeth  ; 
"before  long  foreigners  will  become  of  social  conse- 
quence in  France." 

"Time  enough  when  Marneffe  dies,"  said  Valerie; 
"he  hasn't  long  to  suffer." 

"Those  pains  which  return  upon  him,"  remarked  Lis- 
beth, "  are  like  physical  remorse,  as  it  were.  Good-by  ; 
I  am  going  to  see  Hortense." 

"Well,  go,  my  dearest,  and  bring  me  Wenceslas," 
answered  Valerie.  "In  three  whole  3'ears  not  to  have 
conquered  one  inch  of  ground !  It  is  a  shame  to  both 
of  us !  Wenceslas  and  Henri,  m}'  two  onl}'  passions ; 
one  is  love,  the  other  fancy." 

"How  beautiful  you  are  this  morning !"  said  Lis- 
beth, putting  her  arm  round  Valerie's  waist,  and  kiss- 
ing her.  "  I  delight  in  all  your  pleasures,  3'our  luck, 
your  pretty  dresses.  I  never  reall}'  lived  before  the  day 
which  made  us  sisters." 

"Wait,  my  tigress,"  said  Valerie,  laughing;  "your 
shawl's  awr}'.  You  don't  know  how  to  wear  a  shawl,  in 
spite  of  all  my  lessons  ;  and  yet  you  want  to  be  Madame 
la  marechale  Hulot !  " 


268  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

WHAT    IT    IS    THAT    MAKES    A    GREAT    ARTIST. 

Shod  in  prunella  boots  and  wearing  gray  silk  stock- 
ings, a  handsonio  silk  dress,  and  her  hair  in  sniootli 
bands  beneath  a  ver}'  prett}'  blaek  velvet  bonnet  luied 
Avitli  yellow  satin,  Lisbeth  made  her  wa^-  to  tlie  rue 
Saint-Dominique  b}-  the  boulevard  des  Invalides,  won- 
dering whether  the  depression  so  visible  in  llortense 
would  deliver  that  strong  spirit  into  her  hands,  and 
whether  Sarmatian  inconstane}',  phwed  upon  at  a  mo- 
ment when  all  things  are  possible  with  such  natures, 
would  make  the  husband's  love  for  the  wife  give  way. 

Hortense  and  Wenceslas  occupied  the  ground-lloor 
of  a  house  in  the  rue  Saint-l^oniini(iue  at  the  point 
where  the  street  ends  at  the  esplantule  of  the  Inva- 
lides. The  ai)artnient,  formerlj'  in  keeping  with  the 
honeymoon,  now  wore  that  half-fresh,  half-faded  appear- 
ance which  ma}'  be  called  the  autumn  of  furniture. 
Newly  married  peo[)le  are  terrible  destroyers ;  the}'  use 
and  abuse  things  about  them  as  they  do  love.  Full  of 
their  present,  they  give  very  little  thought  to  the  future, 
whose  cares  are  to  come  sooner  or  later  on  the  mother 
of  the  family.  • 

llortense  had  just  finished  dressing  a  little  Wenceslas, 
Avho  was  then  sent  off  into  the  garden. 

''Good  morning,  liette,"  said  llortense,  opening  the 
door  herself  for  her  cousin. 


Cousin   Bette.  269 

•  The  cook  had  gone  to  market ;  the  chamber-maid, 
who  was  also  the  nurse,  was  washmg. 

"  Good  morning,  dear,"  repUed  Lisbeth,  kissing  Hor- 
tense.  "Well,"  she  whispered,  "is  Wenccslas  in  his 
studio  ?  " 

"  No,  he  is  talking  to  Stidmanu  and  Chanor  in  the 
salon." 

"  Can  we  be  alone?"  asked  Bette. 

"Come  into  ni}'  bedroom." 

The  room  was  hung  in  chintz  with  a  pattern  of  pink 
roses  and  green  foliage  on  a  white  ground,  which  the 
sun  had  now  faded,  together  with  the  colors  of  the 
carpet.  The  curtains  had  not  been  washed  for  a  long 
time.  The  odor  of  Wenceslas's  cigar  pervaded  the  room, 
and  the  sculptor,  born  a  gentleman  and  now  one  of  the 
great  lords  of  art,  dropped  the  ashes  of  his  tobacco  on 
the  arms  of  the  chairs  and  over  the  pretty  things  about 
the  room,  like  a  petted  man  to  whom  all  such  liberties 
are  allowed,  or  a  rich  man  who  feels  he  can  replace  what 
he  injures. 

"Now  then,  let  us  talk  over  3'our  affairs,"  said  Lis- 
beth, looking  at  her  beautiful  cousin,  who  sat  silent  in 
the  eas3'-chair  into  which  she  had  thrown  herself.  "  But 
what 's  the  matter,  dearest?    You  are  pale." 

"Two  more  criticisms  have  been  published  against 
m}'  poor  Wenceslas.  That  statue  to  Marechal  Mont- 
cornet  is  said  to  be  \evY  bad.  They  admit  that  the  bas- 
reliefs  are  good,  to  support,  with  shameful  insincerity, 
the  assertion  that  he  is  only  fit  for  a  decorator,  and 
that  high  art  is  be3-ond  him  !  Stidmann,  whom  I  en- 
treated to  tell  me  the  truth,  says  that  his  ofjinion 
coincides  with  that  of  the  critics  and  the   artists  and 


270  Consul   Bette. 

the  public.  'If  Wenceslas,'  he  stiid  to  me  this  morning 
in  the  garden  before  breakfast,  '  does  not  exhibit  a  fine 
Tork  next  3'ear,  he  will  have  to  give  up  sculpture  and 
take  to  decoration,  and  make  designs  for  jewelrv  and 
silver-ware.'  This  opinion  terrifies  me  ;  for  Wenceslas 
will  never  conform  to  it.  —  he  feels,  he  knows  he  has 
within  him  such  grand  ideas." 

"People  can't  pa}'  their  expenses  with  ideas,"  said 
Bette;  "  1  was  all  the  time  telling  him  so.  Money  alone 
does  it ;  and  mone}'  is  only  earned  b}'  things  done,  — - 
things  that  please  the  middle  classes  so  that  they  buy 
them.  When  it  is  a  question  of  bread  and  butter  tlie 
sculptor  had  better  model  a  torch,  a  fender,  a  table. 
than  a  group  or  a  statue  ;  every  bod}'  wants  that  sort  of 
thing,  while  the  amateur  of  groups  and  statues  with 
plenty  of  money  is  long  in  coming."      ^ 

"  Yes,  you  are  right.  My  good  Lisbeth,  tell  him  so, 
—  I  have  not  the  courage.  Besides,  he  told  Stidmann 
that  if  he  went  back  to  mere  decoration  he  would  have 
to  renounce  the  Institute  and  the  great  creations  of 
art ;  and  we  should  lose  the  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  which  the  minister  has  promised  us  for  the  woik 
at  Versailles  and  for  the  municipality  of  Paris.  That 
is  what  those  cruel  articles,  inserted  by  rivals  who  want 
to  get  our  orders,  will  deprive  us  of." 

'•Ah!  it's  what  you  dreamed  of,  m}'  poor  darling," 
said  Bette,  kissing  Hortense  ;  "you  thought  3'ou  were 
marrying  a  nobleman,  a  leader  of  art  and  the  chief  of 
sculptors.  This  is  what  poetry  has  brought  3'ou  to! 
Poetr\'  requires  fift}'  thousand  francs  a  year  to  support 
it,  and  you  have  only  twenty-four  hundred  during  my 
lifetime,  three  thousand  when  I  die." 


Cousin   Bette.  271 

Tears  came  into  Hortense's  eyes  ;  Bette  lapped  thein 
with  a  glance,  as  a  cat  drinks  milk. 

Here  follows  a  succinct  history  of  the  first  honeyed 
months  of  this  marriage  ;  possibly  the  tale  may  i^ot 
be  lost  upon  artists. 

(  -CMental  toil,  search  through  the  higher  regions  of  the 
intellect,  is  one  of  the  greatest  efforts  known  to  man. 
That  which  is  most  deserving  of  fame  in  art  (under 
this  term  must  be  included  all  creations  of  thought)  is 
coura2:e,  —  a  courage  of  which  common  souls  have 
no  conception,  and  which  has  never,  perhaps,  been  ex- 
plained until  here  and  now.  Driven  bj'  the  terrible 
[)ressure  of  povert}',  held  in  by  Bette,  like  a  horse  with 
blinders  to  prevent  his  seeing  right  and  left  along  the 
wa}',  lashed  by  the  stern  woman,  —  hard  image  of  neces- 
sit}',  that  subaltern  of  Fate,  —  Wenceslas,  born  a  poet 
and  a  dreamer,  passed  from  conception  to  execution 
without  measuring  the  gulf  which  separates  those  two 
hemispheres  of  art.  To  think,  to  dream,  to  conceive 
great  works  is  a  delightful  occupation.  It  is  like  smok- 
ing hashish,  or  living  the  life  of  courtesans  given  over 
to  their  caprices.  Tiie  ideal  work  appears  in  all  its 
grace  of  infancy,  in  the  wild  jov  of  generation,  with 
the  perfumed  colors  of  the  flowers,  and  the  sweetness 
of  the  fruits  tasted  and  inhaled  before  the}'  exist.  Such 
is  conception  and  its  pleasures.  He  who  can  sketch 
out  his  idea  in  words  passes  for  an  extraordinary  man  ; 
all  writers  and  artists  possess  that  facult}'.  But  to  pro- 
duce !  to  bring  the  idea  to  birth !  to  raise  the  child 
laboriously  from  infancy,  to  put  it  nightly  to  sleep 
surfeited  with  milk,  to  kiss  it  in  the  mornings  with 
the  huniiTv  heart  of  a  mother,  to  clean  it.  to  clothe   it 


272  Cousin   Beite. 

fifty  times  over  in  new  garments  which  it  tears  and  casts 
away,  —  and  3'et  not  revolt  against  the  trials  of  this 
agitated  life,  but  to  bring  out  of  them  the  living  master- 
l^iece  which  speaks  to  every  eye  in  sculpture,  to  every 
intellect  in  literature,  to  the  memory  of  all  in  painting, 
to  the  hearts  of  all  in  music,  —  this  is  execution  and 
its  toils.  The  hand  must  incessantly  advance,  ready 
at  ever}^  instant  to  obey  the  head  ;  and  3'et  the  head 
holds  the  creative  instinct  no  more  at  command  than 
the  heart  can  bestow  love  at  will. 

This  habit  of  creation,  this  unwear^'ing  maternal  love, 
this  motherhood  (Nature's  masterpiece,  so  trulj^  com- 
prehended b}'  Raphael !)  cerebral  motherhood,  though 
so  difficult  to  attain,  is  lost  with  fatal  facilitj^  In- 
spiration is  the  opportunity  of  genius.  Never  does 
it  fl}^  low  ;  it  is  in  the  air,  it  darts  away  with  the 
timidit}^  of  a  bird,  no  scarf  floats  from  its  shoulders 
to  the  poet's  grasp,  its  ambient  locks  are  flame  ;  it 
evades  us,  like  those  beauteous  rose-and-white  fla- 
mingoes, the  hunter's  despair.  The  toil  of  art  is  there- 
fore a  relentless  struggle,  which  great  natures  fear  ^et 
court,  often  as  they  are  conquered  in  it.  A  great  poet 
of  our  da}'  has  said,  speaking  of  this  toil,  "  1  take  it  up 
in  dread,  I  la}'  it  down  with  regret."  Let  the  ignorant 
learn  this.  If  an  artist  does  not  spring  to  his  work  as 
Curtius  into  the  gulf,  as  the  soldier  to  the  breach,  without 
reflection ;  if,  once  within  the  crater,  he  does  not  labor 
as  a  miner  buried  in  the  earth ;  if  he  contemplates  his 
difficulties  instead  of  conquering  them  one  b}-  one,  like 
lovers  in  fairj'-tales  who  fight  with  enchanters,  up-spring- 
ing from  each  defeat  to  attain  their  mistresses,  —  the 
work  remains   unachieved  ;    it  perishes  in  the  studio  ; 


Cousin  Bette.  273 

production  becomes  impossible,  and  the  artist  assists 
the  suicide  of  his  own  talent.  Rossini,  brother-genius 
of  Raphael,  is  a  startling  example  of  this  truth  in  the 
ripe  and  opulent  age  which  followed  his  indigent  and 
toiling  3'outh. 

Wenceslas,  b}'  nature  a  dreamer,  had  spent  such  energy 
in  producing,  in  studying,  and  in  working  under  the  des- 
potic rule  of  Lisbeth  that  love  and  happiness  brought 
about  a  reaction.  His  real  character  reappeared.  In- 
dolence and  carelessness,  the  effeminacy  of  the  Slav, 
returned  to  the  soul  from  which  the  master's  whip  had 
driven  them.  For  the  first  few  months  after  his  mar- 
riage he  thought  of  nothing  but  his  love  for  Ilortense. 
The  pair  gave  themselves  up  to  the  rapturous  play  of 
legitimate  and  blissful  passion.  The  wife  thus  became 
the  one  to  wean  the  husband  from  toil ;  the  caresses  of 
a  woman  put  the  muse  to  flight,  and  weakened  the  vigor 
and  the  dogged  perseverance  of  the  toiler.  Six  to  seven 
months  went  by  while  the  sculptor's  hand  forgot  its 
cunning.  When  the  necessity  to  take  up  his  work  came 
on,  when  the  Prince  de  Wissembourg,  chairman  of  the 
subscription  committee,  asked  to  see  the  statue  of  Mont- 
cornet,  Wenceslas  put  him  off  with  the  speech  sacred 
to  idlers,  "lam  going  to  set  about  it."  He  satisfied 
his  dear  Hortensc  with  delusive  speeches  and  the  splen- 
did plans  of  a  smoking  artist.  The  wife's  love  redoubled 
for  her  poet ;  she  foresaw  the  grandeur  of  the  Montcornet 
monument.  The  figure  was  to  represent  the  idealization 
of  intrepid  courage,  the  ty[)e  of  cavahT,  the  embodied 
boldness  of  Murat.  Wh}',  the  mere  sight  of  that  statue 
would  enable  men  to  imagine  all  the  victories  of  the 
Emperor.      And  what  execution  ! 

18 


274  Cousin  Bette. 

As  a  matter  of  actual  production  in  tlie  way  of  stat- 
ues, a  small  Wenceslas  soon  appeared. 

When  it  became  imperative  to  go  to  the  atelier  at  the 
Gros-Caillou  to  handle  cla^^  and  work  out  the  rough 
model,  either  the  prince's  clock  required  the  artist's 
presence  at  Florent  and  Chanor's  workshop,  where  the 
figures  were  being  chiselled,  or  the  weather  was  gloomy  ; 
to-day  he  had  business,  to-morrow  there  was  a  famil\' 
dinner,  —  not  to  speak  of  the  indispositions  of  the  mind, 
and  the  headaches  of  the  body,  or  the  days  when  he 
went  pleasuring  with  an  adored  wife.  The  Marechal 
Prince  of  Wissembourg  got  angry  ])efore  he  could  get 
the  statue,  and  threatened  to  rescind  the  order.  It  was 
only  after  appeals  and  angr}^  speeches  that  the  sub- 
scribers finally  belield  the  clay  model.  Ever}"  day  that 
he  really  worked  Steinbock  returned  home  visiblj^  fa- 
tigued;  he  complained  of  such,  "mason's  labor,"  and 
talked  of  his  physical  weakness.  The  Comtesse  Stein- 
bock, adoring  her  husband  in  all  the  happiness  of  satis- 
fied love,  thought  the  minister  very  cruel.  She  went  to 
see  him,  and  told  him  that  great  works  could  not  be 
hammered  out  like  cannon,  that  the  State  should  sit, 
like  Louis  XIV.,  Francois  I.,  and  Leo  X.,  at  the  feet  of 
Genius.  Poor  Hortense,  thinking  that  her  arms  em- 
braced a  Phidias,  showed  the  maternal  cowardice  of  a 
woman  who  pushes  love  into  idolatry.  "  Don't  press 
3'ourself, "  she  said  to  her  husband;  "our  future  is  in 
that  statue  ;  take  ^our  time,  make  it  3'our  masterpiece." 
She  went  often  to  the  atelier.  Steinbock,  the  lover,  lost 
five  hours  out  of  seven  in  describing  his  work  instead 
of  doing  it.  It  took  him  eighteen  months  to  complete 
the  work  of  such  vital  importance  to  his  career. 


Cousin  Bette.  275 

When  the  plaster  was  run,  and  the  model  actualh'  ex- 
isted, Hortense,  having  witnessed  the  physical  toil  of  her 
husband,  whose  health  suffered  from  the  lassitude  which 
comes  over  the  bod3%  arms,  and  hands  of  sculptors  at 
such  times,  —  poor  Hortense  thought  the  statue  admira- 
ble. Her  father,  who  knew  nothing  of  sculpture,  her 
mother,  not  less  ignorant,  exclaimed  that  it  was  a  mas- 
terpiece. The  minister  of  war  came  to  inspect  it  under 
their  auspices  ;  persuaded  by  them,  he  declared  himself 
satisfied  with  the  cast,  which  was  placed  in  its  proper 
light  before  a  green  curtain.  Alas !  at  the  exhibition 
of  1841  universal  disapproval  pulled  down  the  idol  so 
hastily  set  up.  Stidmann  tried  to  break  the  fact  to  his 
friend  Wenceslas,  and  was  accused  of  jealousy.  The 
articles  in  the  newspapers  seemed  to  Hortense  the  snarls 
of  envy.  Stidmann,  kindl}'  soul,  instigated  other  ar- 
ticles contradicting  the  first,  and  calling  attention  to 
the  fact  that  sculptors  changed  their  work  so  much 
between  the  plaster  and  the  marble  that  the  latter 
alone  ought  to  be  exhibited  and  judged.  "  Between 
the  design  in  plaster  and  the  statue  in  marble,"  wrote 
Claude  Vignon,  "it  is  quite  possible  to  undo  a  fine 
thing  or  make  a  noble  work  of  art  out  of  a  poor  one  ; 
the  plaster  is  the  manuscript,  the  marble  is  the  book." 

In  the  course  of  two  years  and  a  half  Steinbock  had 
made  a  statue  and  a  son.  The  child  was  divinely  beau- 
tiful ;  the  statue  detestable. 

The  clock  of  the  Hours,  sold  to  a  prince,  paid 
the  famil}'  expenses.  Steinbock  contracted  habits  of 
the  world,  went  into  societ}^,  to  the  theatre,  and  the 
opera ;  talked  admirabl}'  upon  art  and  maintained  his 
reputation   as    a   great    artist  by   his    tongue   and   his 


276  Cousiyi  Bette. 

critical  disquisitions.  There  are  men  of  genius  in  Paris 
who  pass  their  Uves  in  talking  themselves  out,  and  are 
content  with  a  sort  of  salon  fame.  Steinbock,  imi- 
tating those  agreeable  eunuchs,  indulged  day  by  day 
his  increasing  aversion  to  labor.  He  saw  all  the  dif- 
ficulties of  a  work  when  he  tried  to  begin  it,  and  tlie 
discouragement  to  which  he  yielded  relaxed  his  will. 
Inspiration,  the  fury  of  intellectual  generation,  fled  with 
hast}'  wing  at  the  very  aspect  of  the  sick  child. 

Sculpture  is  like  dramatic  art,  the  easiest  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  difficult  of  all  the  arts.  Copy  a 
model,  and  the  work  is  done ;  but  put  a  soul  within  it, 
make  a  type  representing  man  or  woman,  and  the  sin  of 
Prometheus  triumphs.  Such  successes  ma}'  be  counted 
in  the  annals  of  sculpture,  as  we  count  poets  through- 
out the  ages.  Michael  Angelo,  Michel  Colomb,  Jean 
Goujon,  Phidias,  Praxiteles,  Polycletus,  Puget,  Canova, 
Albert  Diirer  are  brothers  to  Milton,  Virgil,  Dante, 
vShakspeare,  Tasso,  Homer,  and  Moliere.  The  work 
is  so  grand  that  one  figure  alone  suffices  to  give  immor- 
tality ;  witness  that  of  Figaro,  of  Lovelace,  of  Manon 
Lescaut,  which  immortalized  Beaumarchais,  Richardson, 
and  the  Abbe  Prevost.  Superficial  persons  (artists  can 
count  many  in  their  own  fraternity)  have  said  that 
sculpture  exists  in  the  nude  only,  that  it  died  with 
Greece,  and  that  modern  garments  render  it  a  lost  art. 
But,  in  the  first  place,  the  ancients  made  sublime  stat- 
ues entirely  draped,  like  the  Polyhymnia,  Julia,  Agrip- 
pina,  etc.  Then  let  true  lovers  of  art  go  to  see  Michael 
Anoelo's  Pensoso  at  Florence  and  Albert  Diirer's  Virsrin 
in  the  Cathedral  at  Mainz,  —  a  living  woman  beneath 
her  triple  robes,  with  hair  as  soft  and  flowing  as  ever 


Cousin  Bette.  277 

woman  combed  —  let  persons  ignorant  of  art  see  these 
things,  and  all  will  admit  that  genius  can  impregnate 
the  coat,  the  armor,  or  the  robe  with  thought  and  fill 
them  with  a  bod}^  just  as  man  himself  gives  his  own 
character  and  the  habits  of  his  life  to  his  garments. 
Sculpture  is  the  constant  realization  of  that  distinctive 
thing  in  painting  which  goes  by  the  supreme  name  of 
Raphael.  The  solution  of  the  problem  can  be  found 
only  through  incessant  and  sustained  work  ;  for  the  ma- 
terial difficulties  must  be  so  wholly  vanquished,  the 
hand  so  trained,  so  read}',  so  obedient,  that  the  sculp- 
tor shall  be  enabled  to  struo^oie  soul  to  soul  with  that 
invisible  moral  nature  which  must  be  transfigured  while 
materializing  it.  If  Paganini,  who  told  out  his  soul  on 
the  strings  of  his  violin,  had  spent  three  days  without 
studying  he  would  have  become  an  ordinar}'  violinist.  J^ 
Constant  toil  is  the  law  of  art,  as  it  is  of  life  ;  for  art 
is  idealized  creation.  Thus  great  artists,  true  poets, 
never  await  orders  nor  expect  bu3'ers  ;  they  generate 
and  give  birth  to-day,  to-morrow,  ever.  From  this 
habit  of  labor  results  a  ceaseless  comprehension  of 
difficulties,  which  keeps  them  in  communion  with  the 
muse  and  her  creative  forces.  Canova  lived  in  his  ate- 
lier as  Voltaire  lived  in  his  study.  Homer  and  Phidias 
must  have  done  likewise. 

Wenceslas  Steinbock  was  on  the  arid  way  trod  by 
these  greatest  men  —  the  way  that  leads  to  Alps  of 
glorj'  —  when  Lisbeth  chained  him  in  his  garret.  Hap- 
piness in  the  form  of  Hortense  had  made  the  poet  in- 
dolent, the  normal  condition  of  all  artists ;  for  idleness 
with  them  is  occupation ;  it  is  the  pleasure  of  pachas 
in  the  seragho.     Thej-  caress  ideas,  and  grow  intox- 


278  Cousin  Bette. 

icated  at  the  fountains  of  the  mind.  Great  artists  like 
Steinbock,  given  over  to  reverie,  are  not  unjustly'  called 
dreamers.  Such  opium-eaters  often  die  in  miser}',  when, 
had  circumstances  forced  them  to  inflexible  efforts,  they 
would  have  been  great  men.  These  semi-artists  are 
alwa3's  charming;  men  like  them,  and  make  them  drunk 
with  praise.  The}'  seem  superior  to  other  and  truer 
artists,  who  are  accused  of  self-assertion,  aloofness,  and 
rebellion  against  social  customs,  —  and  for  this  reason  : 
great  men  belong  to  their  works.  Their  detachment 
from  the  things  of  life,  and  their  devotion  to  their  own 
ideas,  make  them  egoists  to  the  eye  of  fools,  who  ex- 
pect them  to  be  dressed  like  dandies  and  to  perform 
those  conventional  evolutions  called  "  duty  to  societ}'." 
They  want  an  African  lion  combed  and  curled  like  the 
poodle  of  a  countess.  Such  artists,  having  few  peers 
among  their  fellows,  and  meeting  them  seldom,  fall 
into  the  exclusiveness  of  solitude ;  they  become  inex- 
plicable for  the  majority,  —  composed,  as  we  know,  of 
fools  and  of  ignorant,  envious,  and  superficial  people. 
We  can  imagine  the  part  a  woman  has  to  play  beside 
these  loft}''  exceptions.  She  must  be,  on  the  one  hand, 
all  that  Lisbeth  had  been  to  Wenceslas  for  five  3'ears, 
and  give  him  love  besides,  —  humble,  discreet,  ever- 
smihng,  ever-present  love. 

Hortense,  warned  by  the  trials  of  her  mother  and 
harassed  by  terrible  necessities,  saw  too  late  the  fault 
her  excessive  love  had  led  her  involuntarily  to  commit ; 
but,  worthy  daughter  of  a  noble  mother,  her  heart  re- 
fused to  admit  the  idea  of  wounding  Wenceslas.  She 
loved  her  poet  too  deepl}'  to  be  his  executioner, 
and   she   awaited   the   coming   moment  when  poverty 


Cousin   Bette.  279 

would  be  upon  them  all,  —  her  husband,  her  son,  and 
herself. 

"  Come,  come,  dear  child,"  said  Bette,  seeing  the 
tears  in  her  cousin's  ejes  ;  "you  must  not  despair.  A 
cupful  of  tears  could  n't  buy  a  plateful  of  soup.  How 
much  do  3'ou  want?  " 

''  Five  or  six  thousand  francs." 

"  I  have  only  three  thousand  at  the  most,"  said  Lis- 
beth.    "  What  is  Wenceslas  doing?" 

''The}'  have  asked  him  to  design  a  dinner-service 
for  the  Due  d'Herouville  for  six  thousand  francs  ;  8tid- 
mann  is  to  do  it  with  him,  and  Chanor  promises  to  pa}' 
the  four  thousand  francs  "VVenceslas  owes  to  Leon  de 
Lora  and  Bridau,  —  a  debt  of  honor." 

"•What!  did  Wenceslas  receive  the  mone}-  for  the 
statue  and  the  bas-reliefs  of  the  monument  to  Mont- 
cornet  and  not  pa}' that  debt?" 

"  But,"  said  Hortense,  "  for  three  years  past  we  have 
spent  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year.  The  monument, 
after  paying  all  costs,  did  not  bring  us  in  more  than 
sixteen  thousand  francs.  In  fact,  if  Wenceslas  does  not 
work  I  don't  see  what  will  become  of  us.  Ah  I  if  I  could 
learn  to  make  statues,  how  I  would  work  the  clay  !  "  she 
said,  stretching  out  her  beautiful  arms. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  woman  fulfilled  the  prom- 
ise of  the  girl.  Her  eye  flashed,  and  red  blood  flowed 
impetuously  in  her  veins.  She  regretted  that  she  was 
obliged  to  spend  her  energy  on  the  care  of  her  child. 

''Ah,  my  little  treasure,  a  wise  girl  wouldn't  have 
married  an  artist  till  he  had  made  his  fortune." 

The  sound  of  steps,  and  the  voices  of  Stidmann 
and   Wenceslas   showins;    Chanor   to    the    door   were 


280  Cousin   Belte. 

heard ;  and  presentlj^  Wenceslas  entered  with  Stid- 
mann.  Stidmann,  an  artist  much  thought  of  in  the 
world  of  journalists  and  of  celebrated  actresses,  was  an 
elegant  young  man,  whom  Madame  Marneffe  had  made 
Claude  Vignon  present  to  her.  Stidmann  had  just 
ended  his  relations  with  the  famous  Madame  Schontz, 
who  had  latel}'  married  in  the  provinces.  Valerie  and 
Lisbeth,  who  had  known  of  the  rupture  through  Vignon, 
thought  it  desirable  to  attract  the  friend  of  Wenceslas 
to  the  rue  Vanneau.  As  Stidmann  seldom  visited  the 
Steinbocks,  and  Lisbeth  had  been  absent  at  the  time 
of  his  presentation  by  Claude  Vignon,  she  now  saw  him 
for  the  first  time.  While  observing  the  young  man  she 
detected  certain  glances  cast  at  Hortense,  which  made 
her  think  it  possible  he  might  console  her  in  case  Wen- 
ceslas was  unfaithful.  Stidmann  did,  in  fact,  feel  that 
if  Steinbock  were  not  his  friend,  Hortense  would  be  an 
adorable  mistress  ;  and  the  feeling,  restrained  b}^  honor, 
kept  him  from  the  house.  Lisbeth  noticed  in  his  man- 
ner the  tell-tale  embarrassment  which  hampers  a  man 
in  presence  of  a  woman  with  whom  he  feels  forbidden 
to  flirt^ 

''He  is  very  good-looking,"  she  whispered  to  Hor- 
tense. 

"  Do  3^011  think  so?"  answered  Hortense.  "I  never 
noticed  it." 

"  Stidmann,  old  fellow,"  said  Wenceslas,  in  a  low 
voice,  "I  won't  stand  on  ceremony  with  a  friend, — 
the  fact  is,  we  have  some  business  to  talk  over  with  the 
old  maid." 

Stidmann  bowed  to  the  two  ladies  and  withdrew. 

"It  is  all  settled,"  said  Wenceslas,  returning  to  tlie 


Co2is{n   Bette.  281 

salon  after  accompan3'ing  Sticlmami  to  the  door.  "  But 
such  a  work  will  take  six  months,  and  how  are  we  to 
live  in  the  meantime?" 

"  I  have  m3'  diamonds,"  cried  Hortense,  with  the  gen- 
erous ardor  of  a  loving  woman. 

The  tears  came  into  her  husband's  eyes. 

"Oh  !  I  will  work,"  he  answered,  sitting  down  beside 
his  wife  and  taking  her  on  his  knee.  "  I  '11  work"  at 
trifles,  wedding  presents,  bronze  groups  — " 

"But,  mj^  dear  children,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  3'ou  know 
3'ou  are  my  heirs ;  and  I  shall  leave  3'ou  a  prettj-  little 
sum,  especially'  if  you  help  me  to  marry  the  marshal. 
If  that  comes  about  soon  I  '11  take  you  to  live  with 
me — 3'OU  and  Adeline.  Ah,  how  happ3'  we  could  be 
together !  But  now  listen  to  the  advice  of  my  experi- 
ence. Don't  resort  to  the  Mont-de-piete  ;  it  is  the  ruin 
of  borrowers.  I  have  never  known  them  able  to  pa3' 
the  interest  when  it  came  to  redeeming  their  propert3', 
and  so  all  is  lost.  I  will  get  3'on  a  loan  of  mone3'  at 
five  per  cent  on  3-our  own  note  onl3'." 

"  Ah,  that  will  save  us,"  cried  Hortense. 

"Well  then,  Wenceslas  must  go  and  see  the  per- 
son who  will  do  you  this  service  to  oblige  me.  It  is 
Madame  Marneffe ;  if  you  flatter  her,  for  she 's  as 
vain  as  all  parvenues,  she  '11  help  3'ou  out  of  3'our 
troubles  in  the  kindest  wa3'.  Pa3'  her  a  visit,  m3^  dear 
Hortense." 

Hortense  looked  at  Wenceslas  with  an  expression 
such  as  a  condemned  man  mounting  the  scaffold  might 
be  expected  to  wear. 

"  Claude  Vignon  took  Stidmann  there,"  said  Wences- 
las ;   "  it  is  a  ver3'  pleasant  house." 


282  Cousin   Beffe. 

Hortense  bowed  her  head ;  what  she  felt  was  not 
grief,  it  was  actual  mahidy. 

"But,  m}'  dear  Hortense,  3'ou  should  give  in  to  the 
ways  of  life,"  cried  Lisbeth,  comprehending  the  elo- 
quence of  the  wife's  gesture;  ""if  not,  you  will,  like 
your  mother,  be  exiled  to  a  deserted  chamber  to  weep 
for  Ulysses, —  another  Calypso,  in  an  age  wlien  there  is 
no  longer  a  Telemaqne ! "  she  added,  quoting  one  of 
Madame  Marnefte's  sarcasms.  "You  should  regard 
people  as  ntensils,  to  be  taken  or  left  according  to  the 
nse  YOU  can  make  of  them.  Make  use  of  Madame 
Marneffe,  and  get  rid  of  her  later.  Are  you  afraid  that 
Wenceslas,  who  adores  you,  will  fall  in  love  with  a 
woman  four  or  five  years  older  than  3-ou,  and  as  faded 
as  a  bale  of  hay?  " 

"I  would  rather  pawn  my  diamonds,"  said  Hortense. 
"  Oh,  don't  go  there,  Wenceslas  !  it  is  hell !  " 

"Hortense  is  right,"  said  Wenceslas,  kissing  his  wife. 

"Thank  ,you,"  she  said,  smiling.  "There,  Lisbeth, 
see,  m}"  husband  is  an  angel.  He  never  gambles ;  he 
goes  wherever  I  go,  and  if  he  could  onh'  take  up  his 
work  and  do  it  I  should  be  perfecth*  happ}'.  Why 
should  we  visit  ni}-  father's  mistress  ? — a  woman  who  has 
ruined  him,  and  caused  our  noble  mother  such  bitter 
grief  that  she  is  d\ing  of  it  — " 

"  My  dear  child,  your  father's  ruin  is  not  her  work; 
it  was  that  singer  in  the  first  place,  and  then  3'our  mar- 
riage," answered  Bette.  "Madame  Marneffe  is  very 
useful  to  him  — •'  there  !  I  ought  not  to  speak  of  it." 

"You  have  a  good  word  for  everybod}',  dear  Bette.'' 

The  baby's  cries  called  Hortense  into  the  garden,  and 
Lisbeth  was  left  alone  for  a  moment  with  Wenceslas. 


Cousin   Bette.  288 

"  Your  wife  is  an  angel,  Wenceslas,"  she  said.  ''  Be 
sure  3'ou  love  her  trul}' ;  don't  give  her  any  cause  lor 
unhappiuess." 

"Yes,  I  love  her  so  much  that  I  conceal  our  real 
situation  from  her,"  answered  Wenceslas,  "but  to  you, 
Lisbeth,  1  can  speak  plainl}*.  Even  if  my  wife  pawned 
her  diamonds  we  should  be  no  better  off." 

"  Well  then,  borrow  of  Madame  Marneffe,"  said 
Bette.  "  Either  persuade  Hortense  to  let  3'ou  go,  or 
else  go  without  her  knowledge." 

"That's  what  I  was  thinking  of  when  I  refused  to 
go  so  as  to  spare  her  feelings,"  answered  Wenceslas. 

"  Wenceslas,  I  love  you  both  too  well  not  to  warn 
you  of  danger.  If  you  go  there,  keep  firm  hold  of  your 
heart,  for  that  woman  is  a  demon  ;  ever}'  man  who  sees 
her  adores  her,  —  she  is  so  vicious,  so  alluring,  she  fas- 
cinates like  a  masterpiece  of  art.  Borrow  her  money 
but  don't  leave  3'our  soul  in  pawn.  I  should  never 
forgive  m3'self  if  Hortense  were  betrayed.  Here  she 
is,"  added  Bette  ;  "  sa}'  no  more,  I'll  arrange  it  all." 

"Thank  Lisbeth,  dear  love,"  said  Steinbock  to  his 
wife;  "  she  will  lend  us  her  savings  to  get  us  out  of 
trouble." 

"Then,  mj'  dearest,  I  hope  you  can  go  to  work  at 
once,"  said  Hortense. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  artist,  "to-morrow." 

"It  is  to-morroxo  that  has  ruined  us,"  said  Hortense, 
smiling  on  him. 

"  M\'  dear  child,  you  know  yourself  the  hindrances 
and  difficulties  and  other  business  that  have  kept  me 
back." 

"  Yes,  3'ou  are  right,  dear  love." 


284  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Here,"  cried  Steinbock  striking  his  brow,  "  I  have 
ideas  !  I  shall  amaze  and  confound  my  enemies.  I  shall 
make  a  dinner-service  in  the  German  manner  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  —  the  rhapsodic  manner  !  I  will  cradle 
infants  in  the  foliage  and  till  it  with  darting  insects,  and 
twine  it  round  chimeras,  true  chimeras,  the  embodiment 
of  dreams  !  ah  !  I  grasp  them  !  It  shall  all  be  tangled, 
airy,  feathery  !  —  Chanor  was  enchanted  with  the  idea. 
—  I  need  encouragement,  for  that  last  article  on  the 
Montcornet  monument  broke  me  down." 

Lisbeth  and  Wenceslas,  seizing  a  moment  when  they 
were  alone  together,  agreed  that  the  latter  should  call 
the  next  day  on  Madame  Marneffe,  either  with  or  with- 
out his  wife's  knowledge  and  permission. 


Cousin  Bette.  285 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AN     ARTIST,     YOUNG      AND     A     POLE,     WHAT     ELSE     COULD 
HAVE    BEEN    EXPECTED? 

Valerie,  informed  at  once  of  Bette's  success,  exacted 
from  Baron  Hulot  an  invitation  to  dinner  for  Stidmann, 
Claude  Vignon,  and  Steinbock ;  for  slie  was  beginning 
to  tyrannize  over  him  as  such  women  tyrannize  over 
old  men,  who  are  made  to  trot  about  town  and  suppl3' 
whatever  is  necessar}-  to  the  interests  and  vanities  of 
their  hard  mistresses. 

On  the  morrow  Valerie  put  herself  under  arms  in  one 
of  those  toilets  which  Parisian  women  invent  when  the^' 
wish  to  make  the  most  of  their  beauty.  She  studied  her- 
self in  this  operation,  as  a  man  about  to  fight  a  duel  stud- 
ies his  feints  and  thrusts  ;  not  a  fold  was  out  of  place, 
not  a  wrinkle  to  be  seen.  Valerie  was  in  her  freshest 
beauty,  —  all  softness  and  delicacy.  All  e3'es  were  in- 
sensibly attracted  b}'  her  mouche.  It  is  supposed  that 
the  rtiouches  of  the  eighteenth  century  are  lost  or  sup- 
pressed, but  that  is  a  mistake.  The  women  of  our  day 
are  cleverer  than  those  of  former  times  ;  the}'  entice  the 
opera-glasses  by  daring  stratagems.  One  invents  a  knot 
of  ribbon  in  the  centre  of  which  a  diamond  sparkles,  and 
she  monopolizes  all  eyes  for  a  whole  evening ;  another 
resuscitates  the  Spanish  hair-net.  or  sticks  a  dagger  in 
her  braids  ;  a  third  puts  on  black  velvet  bracelets,  or 


286  Cousin  Bette. 

lace  lappets.  These  brave  efforts,  these  Austerlitzes  of 
coquetry  or  love,  set  the  fashion  of  the  da}^  to  lower 
spheres  when  these  happy  creatures  of  a  higher  discard 
them  for  others.  On  this  particular  evening  Val(^rie, 
who  was  resolved  to  succeed,  wore  three  niouches.  She 
made  Reine  wash  her  hair  with  a  lotion  that  turned  it 
for  a  few  da3'S  from  a  golden  to  a  flaxen  tint.  Madame 
Steinbock  was  a  glowing  blonde,  and  Valerie  was  re- 
solved not  to  resemble  her  in  anj^  way.  This  new  color- 
ing gave  an  unusual  and  piquant  expression  to  Valerie's 
whole  person,  which  so  preoccupied  the  faithful  that 
Montez  whispered  in  surprise,  "What  has  happened  to 
you  this  evening?"  For  the  second  mouche  she  wore 
a  black  velvet  ribbon  round  her  throat,  which  relieved 
the  exquisite  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The  third  may  be 
compared  to  the  '-''  ex-assassine''  of  our  grandmothers, 
nameh',  the  prettiest  of  rose-buds  nestling  in  the  charm- 
ing hollow  of  her  breast. 

"I'm  appetizing!  "  she  said  to  herself,  going  through 
her  attitudes  before  the  glass,  as  a  danseuse  practises 
her  curtsey. 

Lisbeth  had  gone  to  market,  for  the  dinner  was  to 
be  one  of  those  superfine  repasts  such  as  Mathurine 
had  cooked  for  the  late  prelate  when  he  entertained  the 
bishop  of  the  adjoining  diocese. 

Stidmann,  Claude  Vignon,  and  Comte  Steinbock  ar- 
rived almost  together  at  six  o'clock.  A  common  —  or, 
if  you  please,  natural  —  woman  would  have  come  for- 
ward eagerl}'^  on  the  announcement  of  the  long-wished- 
for  name  ;  but  Valerie,  who  had  been  read}'  and  waiting 
since  five  o'clock,  now  made  her  guests  wait  for  her, 
certain  that  she  was  the  topic  of  their  conversation  and 


Cousm  Bette.  287 

their  secret  thoughts.  While  directing  the  arrangements 
of  the  salon  she  herself  had  placed  about  the  room  those 
delicious  little  baubles  which  Paris,  and  no  other  cit}', 
is  capable  of  producing,  —  costly  trifles  which  reveal  a 
woman,  and,  as  it  were,  announce  her ;  keepsakes  of 
enamel  and  mother-of-pearl;  cups  full  of  charming  rings; 
treasures  of  Sevres  and  Dresden  china  mounted  in  ex- 
quisite taste  by  Florent  and  Chanor  ;  statuettes,  albums, 
knick-knacks  costing  fabulous  sums,  which  passion  buys 
in  its  first  delirium  or  for  a  last  make-peace.  Valerie 
was,  moreover,  in  the  glow  of  intoxication  consequent 
on  success.  She  had  promised  Crevel  to  be  his  wife  if 
Marneffe  died,  and  the  amorous  ma3'or  had  transferred 
the  capital  of  ten  thousand  francs  a  3'ear  to  the  name 
of  Valerie  Fortin,  the  sum  total  of  his  transactions  in 
railways  for  the  last  three  years,  —  in  short,  the  whole 
of  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs  which  he  had  otfered 
as  a  bribe  to  Madame  Hulot.  Valerie  now  possessed  an 
income  of  thirt3'-two  thousand  francs.  But  Crevel  had 
just  made  a  promise  of  far  greater  importance  than  the 
gift  of  money.  During  the  paroxysm  of  passion  into 
which  his  duchess  (he  gave  that  title  to  Madame  de  Mar- 
netfe  to  cany  out  his  illusions)  plunged  him  between 
two  and  four  of  an  afternoon,  he  felt  obliged  to  encour- 
age her  continued  fidelity  by  holding  out  the  prospect 
of  a  pretty  little  mansion  which  an  imprudent  builder 
had  put  up  in  the  rue  Barbette  and  now  desired  to  part 
with.  Valerie  imagined  herself  the  possessor  of  a  charm- 
ing house  "between  court  and  garden"  and  a  carriage. 
"Can  a  virtuous  life  give  all  that  as  quickl}^  and  as 
easily?  —  tell  me  that,"  she  said  to  Bette,  as  she  finished 
dressing:. 


288  Cousin  Bette. 

Lisbeth  dined  with  her  on  this  occasion  to  be  able  to 
sa}^  to  Steinbock  those  things  that  persons  cannot  say 
for  themselves.  Madame  Marneffe,  radiant  in  hapi)i- 
ness,  entered  the  salon  with  modest  grace,  followed  by 
Bette,  dressed  in  black  and  yellow,  who  served,  to  use 
the  language  of  studios,  as  a  foil. 

"  Good  evening,  Claude,"  she  said,  offering  her  hand 
to  the  celebrated  critic. 

Claude  Vignon  had  become,  like  so  man}'  other  lit- 
erary men  of  the  time,  a  politician,  —  the  new  word 
coined  to  express  the  first  stage  of  a  man  ambitious  of 
public  honors.  The  politician  of  1840  is,  in  a  wa}',  the 
abbe  of  the  eighteenth  century.  No  salon  is  now  com- 
plete without  him. 

*'  Dear,  this  is  my  cousin,  Comte  Steinbock,"  said 
Lisbeth,  presenting  Wenceslas,  whom  Valerie  had  pre- 
tended not  to  see. 

"  I  remember  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  Valerie,  with 
a  gracious  inclination  of  her  head.  "I  saw  you  fre- 
quently in  the  rue  du  Doyenne,  and  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  being  present  at  your  marriage.  M3'  dear,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Lisbeth,  "it  would  be  difficult  to 
forget  3'our  ex-son,  even  if  I  had  seen  him  but  once. 
Monsieur  Stidmann  is  very  good,"  she  continued,  bow- 
ing to  the  sculptor,  "to  accept  my  invitation  at  such 
short  notice ;  but  necessity  has  no  law.  I  knew  you 
were  intimate  with  these  gentlemen.  There  is  nothing 
so  dull  and  awkward  as  a  dinner  where  the  guests  do 
not  know  each  other,  and  I  ventured  to  invite  you  for 
their  sakes.  But  you  will  come  again  for  mine,  —  will 
you  not?     Say  yes  !  " 

She  walked  about  the  room  for  a  time  with  Stid- 


Cousin   Befte.  289 

mann,  seeming  quite  absorbed  in  him.  The  footman  an- 
nounced successive!}'  Monsieur  Crevel,  Baron  Hulot, 
and  a  deputy  named  Beauvisage.  This  personage,  a 
provincial  Crevel,  one  of  those  beings  who  are  sent 
into  the  world  merely  to  swell  its  numbers,  voted  under 
the  banner  of  Giraud,  councillor  of  state,  and  Victorin 
Hulot.  These  two  politicians  were  trying  to  form  a 
nucleus  of  progressists  in  the  great  phalanx  of  con- 
servatives. Giraud  dined  sometimes  with  Madame 
Marneffe,  who  flattered  herself  she  might  also  in  time 
get  Victorin  Hulot ;  but  the  puritan  lawyer  had  so 
far  found  various  pretexts  to  decline  his  father-in-law's 
invitations.  To  dine  with  the  woman  who  was  the 
cause  of  his  mother's  tears  seemed  to  him  criminal. 
Victorin  Hulot  was  to  the  puritanical  politicians  of 
the  day  what  a  pious  woman  is  to  a  sanctimonious 
one.  Beauvisage,  formerly  a  hosier  at  Arcis,  was 
anxious  to  acquire  the  "  Parisian  stjde."  Puflfed  up 
with  his  election  to  the  Chamber,  he  was  being 
'•formed"  in  the  salon  of  the  delightful  and  fascina- 
ting Madame  Marneffe,  who  persuaded  him  to  take 
Crevel,  to  whom  he  was  much  attracted,  as  his  model, 
and  mentor ;  he  consulted  him  in  everything,  asked 
the  address  of  his  tailor,  imitated  him,  even  tried  to 
assume  his  attitude, — in  short,  Crevel  became  his 
protot3^pe.  Valerie,  surrounded  b}'  these  personages, 
seemed  to  Wenceslas  a  distinguished  woman,  and  all 
the  more  so  because  Claude  Vignon  praised  lier  in  the 
language  of  a  lover  ;  — 

"She  is  Madame  de  Maintenon  in  Ninon's  petti- 
coats," said  the  former  critic.  "To  please  her  is  an 
aflTair  of  an  evening  if  3-ou  are  witty  ;  but  to  win  her 

19 


290  Cousin  Bette. 

love  is  a  triumph  wliicli  might  suffice  a  man's  pride,  and 
satisfy  his  whole  being." 

Valerie,  apparently  cold  and  indifferent  to  her  former 
neighbor  in  the  rue  du  Do3"enne,  touched  his  vanit}' 
without  knowing  it,  for  she  was  ignorant  of  the  Polish 
character.  There  is  a  childlike  side  to  the  Slav  nature, 
as  in  all  primitive  peoples,  of  whom  it  ma}*  be  said  that 
they  irrupted  among  civilized  nations  instead  of  becom- 
ing civilized  themselves.  The  race  has  spread  like  an 
inundation  and  now  covers  an  immense  portion  of  the 
earth's  surface.  It  inhabits  deserts  where  the  free  space 
is  so  vast  that  its  peoples  feel  at  their  ease  ;  it  rubs 
shoulders  with  no  other  races  (as  the  European  nations 
do) ,  and  civilization  is  impossible  without  the  constant 
friction  of  ideas  and  interests.  The  Ukraine,  Russia,  the 
plains  of  the  Danube,  the  whole  Slav  race  aiid  region 
are  in  fact  the  point  of  union  between  luu'ope  and  Asia, 
between  civilization  and  barbarism.  TIius  the  Poles,  the 
finest  specimen  of  the  Slav  peoples,  show  a  childlikeness, 
an  inconstancy  of  nature  characteristic  of  immature  na- 
tions. They  possess  courage,  intellect,  and  strength, 
but  these  qualities,  weakened  by  inconstancy'  and  incon- 
sistency, have  no  method  and  no  intelligence.  ^  The  Poles 
are  variable  as  the  wind  which  sweeps  across  their  vast 
plains  intersected  b}'  marshes  ;  if  the}'  liave  the  impet- 
uosity of  a  tornado  as  it  twists  trees  and  dwellings  and 
sweeps  them  away,  like  an  avalanche  of  the  air  they 
drop  into  the  nearest  pond  and  dissolve  into  water. 
Men  take  some  of  their  characteristics  from  their  sur- 
roundings. The  Poles,  ever  at  war  with  the  Turks,  de- 
rived from  them  a  love  of  Oriental  magnificence ;  the}' 
often  sacrifice  the  needful  to  the  brilliant,  tliev  decorate 


Cousin   Bette.  291 

their  persons  like  women,  and  yet  their  climate  has 
given  them  the  hard}'  constitution  of  Arabs.  It  thus 
happens  that  the  Polish  nation,  sublime  in  its  sorrows, 
has  allowed  its  oppressors  to  strike  it  down  again  and 
again,  and  has  renewed  in  the  nineteenth  centur\'  the 
spectacle  of  the  earl}'  Christian  martyrs.  Put  ten  per 
cent  of  British  trickerj'  into  the  frank  and  open  na- 
ture of  the  Pole  and  the  generous  white  eagle  would 
reign  where  the  double-headed  bird  now  sails.  A  little 
machiavelism  would  have  kept  Poland  from  saving  Aus- 
tria, who  shared  in  the  partition  ;  from  borrowing  mone}' 
of  Prussia,  the  usurer  wlio  undermined  her  ;  and  from  di- 
viding herself  at  the  time  of  the  first  partition.  At  the 
baptism  of  Poland  some  fair}-  Carabosse,  unobserved  by 
the  other  fairies  who  endowed  that  attractive  nation  with 
so  many  brilliant  qualities,  must  have  appeared  and  said  : 
"  Keep  the  gifts  my  sisters  bring  you,  but  remember, 
you  shall  desire  and  never  know  what  it  is  you  want." 
If  Poland  had  triumphed  in  her  heroic  duel  vvith  Russia 
the  Poles  would  have  fought  each  other  to-day  as  the}' 
formerly  fought  in  their  Diets  to  hinder  one  or  another 
from  becoming  king.  The  day  when  that  nation,  com- 
posed as  it  is  of  none  but  generous  natures,  will  have 
the  common-sense  to  take  a  Louis  XI.  from  its  own 
loins,  and  accept  his  tyranny  and  his  dynasty,  it  will 
be  saved. 

What  Poland  has  been  politically,  Poles  may  be  said 
to  be  in  their  private  hves,  especially  when  trouble  over- 
takes them.  Wenceslas  Steinbock,  who  for  three  years 
past  adored  his  wife  and  knew  himself  her  god,  was  so 
piqued  because  Madame  Marneflfe  scarcely  deigned  to 
notice  liim  that  he  made  it  a  point  of  lionor  to  force 


292  Cousin  Bette, 

some  attention  out  of  her.  Comparing  Valerie  with  his 
wife  he  gave  the  pahii  to  the  former.  Hortense  was  a 
beautiful  piece  of  flesh  and  blood,  as  Valerie  had  said 
to  Lisbeth,  but  with  Madame  Marneffe  there  were 
charms  of  mind  in  the  ver^'  form  and  piquancy  of 
vice.  The  wife's  devotion  seemed  to  the  husband  to 
be  his  due ;  the  sense  of  the  enormous  value  of  an 
absolute  love  is  often  lost,  as  a  debtor  fancies  after  a 
time  that  the  mone}'  lent  is  really  his.  The  wife's  sub- 
lime lo3'alt3'  becomes,  as  it  were,  the  daily  bread  of  the 
soul,  while  infidelitj'  has  the  sugared  sweetness  of  a 
daint}^  A  haughty  woman,  above  all  a  dangerous  one, 
excites  curiosity  just  as  spices  season  plain  fare.  Dis- 
dain, which  Valerie  played  so  well,  was  a  novelty  for 
Wenceslas  after  three  years  of  facile  pleasures.  Be- 
sides, Hortense  was  the  wife,  Valerie  the  mistress. 
Man}'  men  desire  these  two  editions  of  the  same  work  ; 
tliough  it  is  a  great  proof  of  a  man's  inferior  nature 
when  he  does  not  know  how  to  make  his  wife  his  mis- 
tress. Constanc}'  will  ever  be  the  genius  of  Love  ;  the 
sign  of  an  immense  force,  — the  force  that  constitutes  a 
poet.  A  man  should  find  all  women  in  his  wife, — just 
as  the  soiled  poets  of  the  seventeenth  centurj^  made 
Chloes  and  Daphnes  of  their  Manons. 

"Well,"  said  Lisbeth  to  Wenceslas,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  him  thoroughly  fascinated,  ' '  what  do  3'ou  think  of 
Valerie?" 

"  Too  charming  !  "  he  answered. 

"You  would  n't  listen  to  me,"  exclaimed  Bette.  "Ah, 
-my  little  Wenceslas !  if  3'ou  and  I  had  sta3'ed  to- 
gether 3'ou  should  have  been  the  lover  of  this  siren ; 
3'ou  should  have  married  her  when  she  became  a  widow, 


Cousbi  Bette.  293 

and  bad  the  benefit  of  her  fort}'  thousand  francs  a 
year." 

"Has  she  all  that?" 

"  Certainl}-,"  said  Bette.  "  But  take  care  now  what 
you  are  about ;  I  have  warned  3'ou  of  your  danger ; 
don't  burn  3'our  fingers.  Come,  give  me  your  arm,  din- 
neB  is  read}'." 

No  speech  could  have  been  more  demoralizing  to  a 
Pole ;  show  him  a  precipice  and  he  springs  over  it. 
The  Polish  race  has  the  distinctive  genius  of  cavalry ; 
it  believes  in  flinging  itself  headlong  against  obstacles 
and  coming  out  victorious.  The  spur  with  which  Lis- 
beth  prodded  his  vanit}'  was  enforced  by  the  scene 
in  the  dining-room,  where  an  exquisite  silver  service 
made  him  conscious  of  the  elegancies  and  refinements 
of  Parisian  luxur}'. 

"  I  should  have  done  better,"  he  reflected,  "  to  have 
married  Celimene." 

During  dinner  Hulot,  who  was  pleased  to  find  his 
son-in-law  present,  and  still  more  pleased  at  the  cer- 
tainty of  reconciliation  with  Valerie,  of  whose  fidelit}^ 
he  now  felt  sure,  since  he  could  promise  her  Coquet's 
place,  made  himself  delightful.  Stidmann  responded  to 
the  baron's  honho7iiie  with  the  v/it  and  sparkle  of  Pa- 
risian pleasantry,  and  with  his  own  artistic  Atticism. 
Steinbock  would  not  suff'er  his  comrade  to  eclipse  him  ; 
he  displayed  his  powers,  sharpened  his  wit,  produced  an 
effect,  and  was  satisfied  with  himself;  Madame  MarnefFe 
smiled  at  him  once  or  twice  to  show  that  she  fully  un- 
derstood him.  The  good  cheer  and  the  heady  wines 
plunged  him  finally  into  what  we  must  call  a  slough 
of  pleasure.      Excited  by  the  flowing  bowl,   he  flung 


294  Cousi7i   Bette. 

himself  after  dinner  on  a  sofa  in  a  state  of  phj'sical  and 
spiritual  happiness,  which  Madame  Marneffe  lifted  into 
the  seventh  heaven  b}'  placing  herself  beside  him,  light 
as  a  bird,  perfumed  and  bewitching  enough  to  seduce  an 
angel.  She  bent  toward  Wenceslas  and  almost  touched 
his  ear  with  her  lips  as  she  said  in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  We  cannot  talk  business  to-night  unless  3'ou  will 
remain  after  the  others.  Between  3'ou  and  me  and 
Lisbeth  it  will  be  easy  to  arrange  matters." 

"Ah,  you  are  an  angel,  madame,"  said  Wenceslas, 
replying  in  the  same  low  tone.  "  I  was  indeed  a  fool 
not  to  have  listened  to  Lisbeth  —  " 

''  What  did  she  tell  you?  " 

"  She  hinted,  in  the  rue  du  Doyenne,  that  j'ou  might 
love  me." 

Madame  Marneffe  looked  at  Steinbock,  seemed  con- 
fused, and  rose  abruptly'.  A  3'oung  and  prett}-  woman 
never  awakens  in  a  man's  mind  the  idea  of  immediate 
success  with  impunit3\  Valerie's  response,  the  gesture 
of  a  virtuous  woman  repressing  a  passion  hidden  in  her 
heart,  was  a  thousand-fold  more  eloquent  than  the  most 
passionate  assurance. 

Wenceslas,  ardently  excited,  redoubled  his  efforts  to 
please  her.  The  woman  in  sight  is  the  woman  wanted. 
That  is  the  terrible  power  of  actresses.  Madame  Mar- 
neffe, knowing  that  she  was  being  studied,  behaved  like 
an  applauded  actress.  She  made  herself  delightful  and 
her  triumph  was  absolute. 

"My  father-in-law's  passion  no  longer  surprises  me," 
said  Wenceslas  to  Lisbeth. 

"  If  3'ou  talk  so,  Wenceslas,"  she  replied  "I  shall  re- 
gret all  mj  life  having  persuaded  you  to  borrow  those 


Cousin  Bette.  295 

ten  thousand  francs.  C*an  it  l)e  that  you  are  hke  all  the 
rest,"  makuig  a  sign  towards  the  others,  "  niadl}'  in 
love  with  that  creature?  Would  3'ou  be  the  rival  of 
your  own  father-in-law?  Besides,  reflect  on  the  sorrow 
3'ou  would  cause  Hortense." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Wenceslas.  "Hortense  is  an 
angel,  and  I  should  be  a  monster." 

"  One  is  enough  in  a  family,"  remarked  Lisbeth. 

"Artists  should  never  marry,"  cried  Steinbock. 

"Ah!  that's  what  3'OU  said  to  me  in  the  rue  du 
Doyenne.  Your  children  were  to  be  those  groups  and 
statues  and  masterpieces  !  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  of  ?  "  said  Valerie,  coming  up 
to  them.     "  Please  pour  out  tea,  cousin." 

Steinbock,  with  Polish  vain-glory,  wished  to  seem 
intimate  with  the  fairy  mistress  of  the  salon.  He 
glanced  insolently  at  Stidmann,  Claude  Vignon,  and 
Crevel,  and  then,  seizing  Valerie  by  the  hand,  he  com- 
pelled her  to  sit  down  by  him  on  the  sofa. 

"  You  are  too  autocratic,  Comte  Steinbock,"  she  said, 
making  a  slight  resistance. 

Then  she  laughed  as  she  dropped  beside  him,  and  let 
him  see  the  rosebud  nestling  in  her  bosom. 

"  Alas !  if  I  were  that,  I  should  not  be  here  now  as 
a  borrower,"  he  said. 

"Poor  fellow  —  I  remember  your  toilsome  nights  in 
the  rue  du  Doyenne.  You  were  foolish,  were  you  not? 
you  married  as  a  hungry  man  snatches  bread.  You  did 
not  know^  Paris,  and  see  the  result !  You  turned  a  deaf 
ear  to  Bette's  devotion  —  as  well  as  to  other  love  — ." 

"  Say  no  more,"  cried  Steinbock,  "you  annihilate  me." 
"You  shall  have  your  ten  thousand  francs,  my  dear 


296  Cousin   Bette. 

Wenceslas,  but  on  one  condition,"  she  said^  playing 
with  her  pretty  curls. 

"  And  that  is  ?  —  " 

"  Well,  I  can  receive  no  interest." 

"  Madame!  " 

"Oh,  don't  be  displeased  ;  30U  can  make  me  a  bronze 
group  in  payment.  You  began  the  stor}'  of  Samson  ; 
well,  finish  it.  Make  Delilah  cutting  the  hair  of  the 
Jewish  Hercules.  You,  who  could  be  a  great  artist  if 
3'ou  would  onl}'  listen  to  me,  you  will  understand  the 
subject.  The  point  is  to  express  the  power  of  woman. 
Samson  pla3's  no  part  in  it ;  he  is  the  dead  body  of 
power.  Delilah  is  passion  destroying  all.  How  that 
replica  —  is  that  what  3-ou  call  it?  "  she  added  cleverly, 
seeing  Stidmann  and  Claude  Vignon  approach  on  hear- 
ing this  talk  of  art,  ' '  how  far  more  beautiful  this 
replica  of  the  story  of  Hercules  at  the  feet  of  Om- 
phale  is,  than  the  Greek  legend.  Did  Greece  obtain  it 
from  Judea,  or  did  Judea  take  the  sj^mbol  from  the 
Hellenes  ? '' 

"  Ah,  madame,  there  you  raise  a  serious  question," 
said  Claude  Vignon,  —  "  that  of  the  periods  at  which  the 
various  books  of  the  Bible  were  written.  The  immortal 
Spinosa,  so  idioticallj^  classed  among  atheists  —  a  man 
who  proved,  mathematical!}',  the  existence  of  God  !  — 
declared  that  Genesis,  and  what  ma}'  be  called  the  po- 
litical part  of  the  Bible,  was  written  in  the  time  of 
Moses ;  he  shovv-ed  the  interpolations  by  philological 
facts  —  for  which  he  was  stabbed  three  times  at  the 
door  of  the  sanctuary." 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  so  learned,"  said  Valerie,  an- 
noyed to  have  her  tete-a-tete  interrupted. 


Cousin  Bette.  297 

"  Women  know  all  intuitively,"  replied  Vignon. 

"Well,  will  you  promise  me  to  make  the  group?" 
she  said  to  Steinbock,  taking  his  hand  with  the  modest 
hesitation  of  a  girl  in  love. 

"You  are  a  happ3'  man  if  madame  asks  you  for 
anything,"  said  Stidmann. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Claude  Vignon. 

"A  little  bronze  group,"  answered  Steinbock.  "De- 
lilah cutting  Samson's  hair." 

"Difficult,"  remarked  Vignon,  "on  account  of  the 
bed  —  " 

"  No,  \QV\  eas3',"  said  Valerie,  smiling. 

"  Make  us  the  desio'n  !  "  exclaimed  Stidmann. 

"Madame  must  give  the  model  for  that  design,"  said 
Claude,  with  a  meaning  glance  at  Valerie. 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  smiling,  "  this  is  how  I  under- 
stand the  subject :  Samson  wakes  up  without  his  hair 
—  like  man}'  a  dandy  who  wears  a  wig!  The  hero  can 
sit  on  the  side  of  the  bed  ;  you  need  onl}-  show  part  of 
it  half  hidden  by  the  sheets  and  curtains.  He  sits  there 
like  Marius  in  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  his  arms  crossed, 
his  head  shorn.  Napoleon  at  Saint-Helena,  or  what  you 
please !  Delilah  kneels  —  a  good  deal  like  Canova's 
Magdalen.  When  a  woman  ruins  a  man  she  always 
idolizes  him ;  in  ni}'  opinion  the  Jewess  was  afraid  of 
Samson  when  he  was  terrible  and  powerful,  but  she 
must  have  loved  him  when  she  had  made  him  helpless. 
So  she  regrets  what  she  has  done,  and  longs  to  give 
him  back  his  hair ;  she  scarcely  dares  look  at  him ; 
then  she  does  look  at  him,  smiling,  for  she  sees  her 
pardon  in  Samson's  weakness.  Such  a  group,  coupled 
with  one  of  that  savage  Judith,  might  really  be  called 


298  Cousin  Bette. 

AVoman  Explained.  Vice  cuts  off  the  hair,  but  virtue 
cuts  off  the  head.  Ah  !  take  care  of  3'our  locks,  gentle- 
men !  " 

And  she  left  the  two  artists  and  the  critic,  who  all 
three  sang  praises  in  her  honor. 

"  Delightful !  "  said  Stidmann^ 

"She  is  the  most  inteUigent  and  the  most  desira- 
ble woman  I  have  ever  known,"  said  Claude  Vignon. 
"  Such  a  union  of  beaut}'  and  intellect  is  rare  indeed." 

"If  you,  who  have  the  happiness  of  knowing  Camille 
Maupin  intimatel}^,  can  say  that,"  replied  Stidmann, 
"what  must   the  rest  of  us  think?" 

"  My  dear  count,  if  you  will  make  your  Delilah  a 
portrait  of  Valerie,"  said  Crevel,  leaving  the  card-table 
where  he  had  overheard  the  conversation,  "  I  will  give 
3'ou  three  thousand  francs  for  a  cop3^  Yes,  hang  it  all^ 
I  'm  willing  to  go  that.'' 

"  '  Go  that '? —  what  does  he  mean?  "  asked  Beau- 
visage  of  Claude  Vignon. 

"If  madame  could  be  induced  to  sit,"  said  Steinbock 
to  Crevel.     "  Will  you  ask  her?  " 

Just  then  Valerie  herself  brought  Steinbock  a  cup  of 
tea.  It  was  more  than  a  courtes}',  it  was  a  favor. 
There  is  an  unspoken  language  in  the  way  a  woman 
gives  a  man  his  tea  which  the  sex  thoroughl}^  under- 
stand ;  it  is  in  fact  a  curious  stud}^  to  watch  her  move- 
ments, gestures,  glances,  tones,  and  accents  as  she  per- 
forms this  apparently  simple  act  of  politeness.  In  that 
varied  question,  "  Do  you  take  tea?"  "Will  you  have 
some  tea?"  "A  cup  of  tea?"  —  varying  from  the  cold 
formula  of  the  nymph  who  sits  at  the  urn  to  the 
poem   of  the  odalisque   who  comes,   cup  in   hand,    to 


Cousin  Bette.  299 

the  pacha  of  her  heart,  and  offers  it  submissively  in 
caressing  tones  and  with  looks  full  of  pleasurable  prom- 
ise—  a  ph3^siologist  maj'  find  the  whole  round  of  fe- 
male sentiments,  from  aversion  and  indifference  to  the 
offer  of  Phedre  to  Hippolyte.  In  that  little  act  women 
can  make  themselves,  at  will,  disdainfully  insulting,  or 
submissive  as  an  Eastern  slave.  Valerie  was  more  than 
woman ;  she  was  the  serpent  made  woman,  and  she 
crowned  her  diabolical  work  b}^  approaching  Steinbock 
with  a  cup  of  tea. 

'*I  will  take  as  many  as  3'ou  bring  me/'  whispered 
the  artist  rising  and  touching  Valerie's  hand  with  his 
own  as  he  took  the  cup  "  if  you  will  give  them  to  me 
thus." 

"  What  were  you  saying  about  m}-  sitting  to  3'ou?  " 
she  asked,  without  appearing  to  notice  the  declaration 
she  had  so  eagerly  awaited. 

' '  Old  Crevel  offers  me  three  thousand  francs  for  your 
Delilah  group  —  " 

"  Three  thousand  francs,  he  !  a  group?" 

' '  Provided  you  will  sit  as  Delilah." 

"  He  will  not  be  present,  I  hope,"  she  said,  "  other- 
wise the  group  would  cost  his  whole  fortune,  for  Deli- 
lah, I  think,  must  be  somewhat  disrobed." 

Just  as  men  like  Crevel  affect  a  posture,  so  women 
assume  a  studied  pose,  an  attitude  of  victory  when  they 
feel  they  are  irresistibly  admired.  There  are  some  who 
pass  whole  evenings  in  society  in  looking  at  the  lace  of 
their  chemisettes  or  straightening  the  sleeves  of  their 
dresses,  or  showing  the  beaut}'  of  their  eyes  by  looking 
at  the  cornices.  Madame  Marneffe  did  not  proclaim 
her   triumphs  openly  like   other  women.      She    turned 


300  Cousin   Bette, 

quickly  towards  the  tea-table  to  seek  Bette ;  and  the 
undulation  of  her  robe  as  she  did  so  fascinated  Stein- 
bock  with  the  same  spell  by  which  she  had  first  con- 
quered Hulot. 

"  Your  vengeance  is  complete,"  whispered  Valerie  to 
Bette,  "  Hortense  will  weep  all  the  tears  in  her  body 
and  curse  the  daj'  wdien  she  took  Wenceslas  away  from 
you." 

"Until  I  am  Madame  la  marechale  I  have  gained 
nothing,"  said  Bette;  "but  they  have  begun  to  wish 
it.  This  morning  I  went  to  see  Victorin, — I  forgot 
to  tell  30U  that.  He  and  his  wife  have  taken  up  the 
baron's  notes  to  Vauvinet ;  the}"  are  to  sign  bonds  to- 
morrow for  the  repayment  of  sevent3'-two  thousand 
francs  in  three  3'ears  with  five  per  cent  interest,  se- 
cured b}^  a  mortgage  on  their  house.  So  thej^,  too,  will 
be  pinched  for  the  next  three  j^ears,  and  they  can  raise 
no  more  money  on  their  property.  Victorin  is  dread- 
fully gloomy  ;  he  understands  his  father  at  last.  Crevel 
is  so  angry  at  what  has  been  done  that  he  is  quite 
likely  to  refuse  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  them." 

"The  baron  must  be  entirely  without  resources  b}- 
this  time,  —  don't  you  think  so?"  whispered  Valerie  to 
Bette,  smiling  at  Hulot. 

"  I  don't  see  that  he  can  have  anything  left ;  but  he 
gets  back  his  salary  in  September." 

"And  he  has  that  life  insurance;  he  has  lately  re- 
newed it.  It  is  high  time  MarnefTe  got  his  promotion. 
I  shall  attack  Hector  to-night." 

"Cousin,"  said  Bette,  going  up  to  Wenceslas,  "do 
pray  go  aw^ay.  You  are  making  3'ourself  ridiculous  ; 
you  look  at  Valerie  in  a  compromising  wa^',  and  her 


Cousm  Bette.  301 

husband  is  madly  jealous.  Doir  t  imitate  your  father- 
in-law,  but  go  home  ;  I  am  certain  your  wife  is  expect- 
ing you." 

"  Madame  Marneffe  told  me  to  remain  till  the  last  to 
settle  that  little  money  matter,"  said  Wenceslas. 

"  Xo,"  said  Lisbeth ;  "I'll  give  you  the  ten  thou- 
sand francs  now ;  Marneffe  has  his  eye  upon  30U,  and 
it  would  be  very  imprudent  for  3'ou  to  sta}'  now.  To- 
morrow morning,  at  nine  o'clock,  you  can  bring  your 
note ;  that  fool  of  Marneffe  is  then  at  his  office,  and 
Valerie  will  be  alone.  Go  up  to  my  rooms  when  3'ou 
come.  —  Ah  !  "  she  added,  detecting  the  look  with  which 
Steinbock  took  leave  of  Valerie,  "I  always  knew  3'ou 
were  a  libertine  b3^  nature.  Valerie  may  be  beautiful, 
but  don't  make  Hortense  unhapp3^" 

Nothing  irritates  married  men  so  much  as  to  find  their 
wives  between  themselves  and  their  desire,  no  matter 
how  ephemeral  it  may  be. 


302  Cousi7i  jBette. 


CHAPTER   XXIIT. 

THE    FIRST    QUARREL    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

Wenceslas  returned  home  about  one  in  the  morn- 
ing. Hortense  had  been  expecting  him  since  half-past 
nine.  From  half-past  nine  to  ten  she  listened  to  the 
rolling  of  carriages,  thinking  to  herself  that  Wenceslas 
had  never  before  been  so  late  when  he  dined  at  Florent 
and  Chanor's  without  her.  She  sat  sewing  by  the  cra- 
dle of  her  son  ;  for  she  had  begun  to  save  the  wages 
of  a  workwoman  b}'  doing  the  mending  of  the  family 
herself.  From  ten  to  half-past  ten  she  felt  an  uneasy 
doubt,  and  asked  herself:  "  Surel}',  he  went  to  dine, 
as  he  told  me,  with  Chanor  and  Florent?  He  wore  his 
best  cravat,  and  the  handsome  pin ;  he  took  as  much 
time  to  dress  as  a  woman  who  wants  to  be  better  look- 
ing than  she  is.  Ah  !  what  a  fool  I  am  !  He  loves  me. 
Here  he  is  !  "  Alas  !  the  carriage-wheels  rolled  b}',  in- 
stead of  stopping. 

From  eleven  o'clock  till  midnight  Hortense  was  a 
pre}'  to  unutterable  fears,  increased  by  the  dead  silence 
of  the  neighborhood.  "  If  he  comes  back  on  foot,"  she 
thought,  "some  harm  ma}'  happen  to  him.  He  might 
slip  on  the  pavement,  —  artists  are  so  absent-minded. 
Suppose  a  robber  should  stop  him !  This  is  the  first 
time  that  he  has  left  me  alone  for  six  whole  hours ! 


Cousin  Bette.  303 

Whj'  should  I  torment  ii\yself  ?    I  know  he  will  never 
love  an}^  one  but  me." 

ij^en  ought  to  be  faithful  to  the  women  who  love 
them,  were  it  only  because  of  the  miracles  true  love 
works  in  that  sublime  region  called  the  spiritual  world. 
A  loving  woman  is,  in  relation  to  the  man  she  loves, 
like  a  somnambulist  on  whom  a  magnetizer  should  be- 
stow the  melancholy  power  of  being  conscious  as  woman 
of  what  she  perceived  in  trance.  Passion  brings  the 
nervous  forces  of  woman  to  that  ecstatic  state  in  which 
presentiment  is  equivalent  to  the  vision  of  seers.  A 
woman  feels  she  is  betrayed ;  she  listens  to  no  self- 
reasoning  ;  she  doubts  because  she  loves,  and  she  nega- 
tives the  cry  of  her  pythoness  power.  That  paroxvsm 
of  love  should  be  held  in  reverence.  Admiration  for 
its  divine  phenomena  will  ever  be  a  barrier  between  all 
noble  natures  and  infidelity.  How  is  it  possible  not  to 
revere  the  beautiful  and  spiritual  being  whose  soul  has 
reached  the  capacity  for  such  manifestations  ? 

By  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  Hortense  was  in  such 
a  state  of  anguish  that  she  rushed  to  the  door  on  hear- 
ing Wenceslas's  well-known  ring,  took  him  in  her  arms 
and  pressed  him,  as  a  mother  might,  to  her  bosom. 

"At  last!"  she  said,  recovering  the  use  of  speech. 
"  My  dear  love,  in  future  I  must  go  where  you  go  ;  for 
I  can  never  again  bear  the  torture  of  such  waiting.  I 
fancied  you  falling  on  the  pavement,  3-our  head  wound- 
ed !  killed  by  robbers  I  —  No,  if  it  were  to  happen 
again  I  should  go  mad.  And  you  were  amusing  3'our- 
self  without  me  ?     Ah,  rogue  I  " 

"  How  could  I  help  it,  my  dear  little  angel?  Bixiou 
was  there  with  a  series  of  new  absurdities,  and  Leon 


304  Cousin  Bette. 

de  Lora,  whose  wit  is  never  to  be  quenched,  and 
Claude  Vignon,  to  whom  I  owe  the  only  consoling 
criticism  on  the  Montcornet  monument.  There  w^as 
also  —  " 

"  Were  there  no  women?  "  asked  Hortense,  eagerh'. 

"  The  worthy  Madame  Florent  — " 

"  Then  3'ou  dined  at  their  house?  You  told  me  3'ou 
were  going  to  the  Eocher  de  Cancale." 

"  Yes,  at  their  house  ;  I  made  a  mistake." 

' '  Did  3  ou  drive  home  ? " 

"No."* 

"  You  walked  all  the  wa}'  from  the  rue  des  Tour- 
nelles?" 

"  I  went  with  Stidmann  and  Bixiou  round  by 
the  boulevards  as  far  as  the  Madeleine ;  we  were 
talking  —  " 

"It  couldn't  have  rained  on  the  boulevards,  or  the 
place  de  la  Concorde  and  the  rue  de  Bourgogne,"  re- 
marked Hortense,  looking  at  the  polish  of  her  husband's 
boots. 

It  had  certainl}'  been  raining  ;  jQi  Wenceslas  had  not 
muddied  his  boots. 

"  See,  here  are  five  thousand  francs  which  Chanor 
has  generousl}'  lent  me,"  said  Wenceslas,  hoping  to 
cut  short  these  judicial  inquiries. 

He  had  folded  the  ten  thousand  francs  into  two 
packets  of  five  thousand  each,  —  one  for  Hortense,  the 
other  for  himself,  to  paj'  debts  of  which  she  was  igno- 
rant ;  he  owed  them  to  his  rough-hewer  and  workmen. 

"  That  relieves  you  from  anxiety,  dear,"  he  said, 
kissing  her.  "To-morrow  I  shall  set  to  work; — 3'es, 
to-morrow  vou  will  see  me  off"  to  the  atelier  at  ei2:lit 


Cousin  Bette.  805 

o'clock.     I'll  go  to  bed  at  once,  with  \o\\v  permission, 
darling,  so  as  to  get  up  early." 

The  doubt  which  had  vaguely  entered  his  wife's  mind 
disappeared  ;  she  was  a  thousand  leagues  from  suspect- 
ing the  truth.  Madame  Marneffe  I  the  idea  never  en- 
tered her  mind.  She  was  afraid  of  the  society  of  loose 
women  for  her  husband  ;  and  the  names  of  Bixiou  and 
Leon  de  Lora,  notorious  for  their  dissipated  lives,  alarmed 
her.  The  next  day,  seeing  Wenceslas  depart  for  his 
atelier  at  nine  o'clock  she  was  completeh*  reassured. 
"There  he  is  at  work,"  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she 
proceeded  to  dress  the  baby.  "  Ah  !  I  see  he  is  going 
to  take  hold  of  his  art !  Well,  if  we  can't  have  the  glory 
of  Michael  Angelo,  at  least  he  shall  win  that  of  Cel- 
lini." Buo3'ed  up  by  her  own  hopes  Hortense  believed  in 
a  prosperous  future,  and  she  was  babbling  to  her  son, 
aged  twent}'  months,  in  that  onomato-poetic  language 
which  makes  a  baby  smile,  when  the  cook,  unaware  that 
Steinbock  had  gone  out,  announced  Stidmann. 

"Pardon  me,  madame,"  said  the  artist.  "  Wh}' ! 
has  Wenceslas  gone   alread}'  ?  " 

'^To  his  atelier." 

"  I  came  to  arrange  with  him  about  our  new  work." 

'•  I  will  send  for  him,"  said  Hortense,  signing  to 
Stidmann  to  be  seated. 

The  young  wife,  thanking  heaven  for  the  opportunity, 
was  anxious  to  detain  Stidnqann  and  hear  something 
about  the  events  of  the  night  before.  Stidmann  bowed 
as  he  thanked  her.  She  rang  the  bell,  and  the  cook  re- 
ceived the  order  to  go  to  the  atelier  for  her  master. 

"  I  hope  vou  were  amused  last  night,"  said  Hortense, 
"Wenceslas  did  not  get  home  till  one  in  the  morning." 

20 


306  Coimn  Bette. 

''  Amused? —  well,  not  exacth',"  said  the  artist,  who 
had  intended  the  night  before  to  captin-e  Madame  Mar- 
neffe  on  his  own  account.  "  One  can't  amuse  one's  self 
in  society  unless  one  has  some  personal  interests  to 
gratifj'.  That  little  Madame  MarnefFe  is  very  wittj', 
but  she  is  coquettish  and  —  " 

"  What  did  Wenceslas  think  of  her?  "  asked  HortensC; 
endeavoring  to  be  calm,  ^yhe  did  not  tell  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  only  one  thing,"  answered  Stidmann, 
'*  she  is  a  dangerous  woman." 

Hortense  turned  as  pale  as  a  woman  just  after  child- 
birth. "Then  it  was  —  with  Madame  Marneffe  —  and 
not  with  —  Chanor  —  that  you  and  Wenceslas  dined 
3'esterday,"  she  said;  "and  he  — " 

Stidmann,  without  understanding  what  harm  he  had 
done,  guessed  that  he  had  made  some  blunder.  The 
countess  did  not  finish  her  speech,  and  suddenl}^  fainted 
awa}'.  The  artist  rang  the  bell  and  the  chambermaid 
came.  After  the  woman  had  carried  Hortense  into  her 
bedchamber  a  violent  nervous  attack  came  on.  Stid- 
mann, like  others  whose  involuntary  indiscretion  knocks 
down  a  husband's  edifice  of  lies,  could  hardl}^  believe 
that  his  speech  should  have  caused  such  a  result.  He 
thought  it  probable  that  the  countess  was  in  a  situation 
where  a  slight  w^ord  of  contradiction  became  dangerous. 
The  cook  entered  at  this  moment  and  stated  that  mon- 
sieur was  not  at  the  atelier.  The  countess  heard  the 
words  and  a  fresh  attack  came  on. 

"Go  and  get  Madame's  mother,"  said  Louise,  the 
chambermaid,  to  the  cook  ;    "  run  I  " 

"  If  I  knew  where  to  find  Wenceslas,  I  would  go  for 
him,"  said  Stidmann,  in  despair. 


Cousin  Bette.  807 

"He  is  with  that  woman  I "  cried  poor  Hortense. 
"He  was  dressed  for  something  else  than  his  atelier." 

Stidmann  went  instantl}'  to  Madame  Marneffe's  house, 
understanding  at  once  this  second-sight  of  the  passions. 
At  the  moment  of  his  arrival  Valerie  was  posing  as 
Delilah.  Too  shrewd  to  ask  for  Madame  Marneffe, 
Stidmann  passed  the  porter's  lodge  and  ran  quickl}' 
up  to  the  second  floor,  arguing  with  himself,  "  If  I 
ask  for  her,  I  shall  be  told  she  is  not  in ;  if  I  ask 
for  Steinbock,  %ey'll  laugh  in  m}'  face,  —  I'll  force 
an  entrance." 

He  rang  the  bell ;  Heine  answered  it. 

"  Tell  Monsieur  le  Comte  Steinbock  to  come  at  once  ; 
his  wife  is  ill." 

Reine,  quite  as  shrewd  as  Stidmann,  looked  at  him 
with  a  stupid  air. 

"  But,  monsieur,  I  don't  exactly  know  —  what  j'ou  —  " 

"I  tell  you  that  my  friend  Steinbock  is  here,  —  his 
wife  is  ill,  and  the  matter  is  serious  enough  for  3'ou  to 
disturb  your  mistress." 

Stidmann  left  the  house.  "  He  's  there  I  "  he  said 
to  himself.  He  waited  a  few  moments  at  the  corner 
of  the  rue  Vanneau  till  he  saw  Wenceslas  come  out, 
and  then  signed  to  him  to  move  quicklv.  After  relat- 
ing what  had  happened,  Stidmann  scolded  Steinbock 
for  concealing  the  truth  about  the  dinner  of  the  night 
before. 

"It  is  a  terrible  mishap,"  answered  Wenceslas,  "but 
I  forgive  you.  I  totally  forgot  you  had  promised  to 
meet  me  this  morning,  and  I  made  a  great  mistake  in 
not  telling  you  to  sa}'  we  dined  at  Florent's.  But  I 
could  n't  help  it ;   that  Valerie  has  put  me  beside  my- 


308  Cousin  Bette. 

self — but  all,  m}'  dear  fellow,  she  is  worth  more  than 
fame  ;  a  man  could  face  everything  for  her  sake.  Ad- 
vise me.  What  am  I  to  tell  Hortense?  how  am  I  to 
excuse  m3'self  ?  " 

"  Advise  3'ou  !  "  replied  Stidmann,  "  I  know  nothing 
about  it.  Your  wife  loves  you,  does  n't  she  ?  Well, 
she  will  believe  whatever  you  sa}'.  Tell  her  that  j^ou 
came  for  me  when  I  went  for  3-ou,  and  we  crossed  each 
other ;  3'ou  can  at  least  get  out  of  this  morning's  affair. 
Adieu!" 

Lisbeth,  hearing  what  had  happened  from  Reine, 
overtook  Steinbock  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  Hillerin- 
Bertin  ;  she  was  afraid  of  his  Polish  candor.  Anxious 
not  to  be  compromised,  she  said  a  few  words  to  Wen- 
ceslas  which  made  him  stop  and  kiss  her  in  the  open 
street.  Perhaps  she  threw  him  a  plank  b}'  which  to 
cross  the  conjugal  strait. 

When  Hortense  saw  her  mother,  who  arrived  in 
haste,  she  burst  into  tears  ;  and  the  nervous  crisis  for- 
tunatelj'  took  another  turn. 

''  Betrayed  !  my  dear  mamma,  betrayed  !  "  she  said. 
"  Wenceslas,  after  giving  me  his  word  of  honor  that  he 
would  not  visit  Madame  Marneffe,  dined  there  yester- 
day, and  onl3^  got  back  at  one  in  the  morning.  The 
niglit  before  we  had  had,  not  a  quarrel,  but  an  expla- 
nation. I  said  such  tender  things  to  him,  —  I  told  him 
that  I  was  jealous  of  his  love,  that  unfaithfulness  would 
kill  me.  I  said  I  was  easily  hurt,  but  he  must  forgive 
my  weaknesses  because  the}'  all  came  from  m}''  love  for 
him  ;  that  I  had  as  much  of  m^'  father's  blood  as  of 
3'ours  in  m}'  veins,  and  if  betra3'ed  I  might  be  maddened 
and   commit  mad  deeds  ;    T  might  avenge   m3'self  and 


Cousin  Bette.  309 

dishonor  us  all — him,  our  child,  myself ;  that  I  might  even 
kill  him,  and  myself  afterwards.  And  3'et  he  went  to  her ! 
he  is  there  now !  That  woman  is  resolved  to  destroy 
us  all.  Yesterda}'  Victorin  and  Celestine  signed  bonds 
to  take  up  my  father's  notes  for  sixt}^  thousand  francs 
which  he  has  wasted  on  that  wanton.  Yes,  mamma, 
the  creditors  were  about  to  put  papa  in  prison.  That 
horrible  woman  is  not  satisfied  with  m}'  father's  honor 
and  your  tears,  she  must  also  deprive  me  of  Wences- 
las  !  —  I  will  go  to  her  ;  I  will  stab  her  !  " 

Madame  Ilulot,  horrors tri eke n  by  the  news  which 
Hortense  in  her  ftuy  betrayed,  controlled  her  anguish 
by  an  heroic  effort,  such  as  noble  mothers  are  alone  able 
to  make.  She  laid  her  daughter's  head  upon  her  breast, 
and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"  Wait  till  you  see  Wenceslas,  ni}'  child,  and  all  will 
be  explained.  The  evil  cannot  be  as  great  as  3'ou 
tliink.  I  have  myself  been  betrayed,  Hortense.  You 
think  me  beautiful,  I  am  virtuous,  and  yet  for  the  last 
tw^entj'-four  years  I  have  been  abandoned  for  such  wo- 
men as  Jenn}'  Cadine,  Josepha,  Madame  Marneffe,  — 
did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"You,  mamma,  3'ou  ! — for  twentj'-four  3'ears  you 
have  suffered  as  —  " 

She  stopped  before  the  ideas  in  her  own  mind. 

"Imitate  3'our  mother,  dear  child;  do  as  she  has 
done.  Be  gentle  and  kind,  and  your  conscience  will  be 
at  peace.  On  his  djing  bed  a  man  will  sa}'  '  M}-  wife 
caused  me  no  sorrow.'  God  who  hears  those  words 
will  place  them  to  our  account.  If  I  had  yielded  to 
anger  as  3'Ou  are  doing  now,  do  3'ou  know  what  would 
have  happened?    Your  father  would  have  been  embit- 


310  Cousin  Bette, 

tered  ;  he  might  have  abandoned  his  home  altogether ; 
our  ruin,  which  has  come  now,  would  have  come  ten 
years  earlier ;  we  should  have  shown  to  the  world  the 
shameful  spectacle  of  a  husband  and  wife  living  apart, 
a  deplorable  scandal,  the  destruction  of  the  family  ; 
neither  you  nor  your  brother  could  have  married.  I 
sacrificed  myself — and  so  courageoush'  that  if  it  had 
not  been  for  your  father's  last  liaison,  the  world  would 
have  thought  me  a  happy  wife.  My  deceit,  ni}'  brave 
deceit,  has  protected  Hector  all  his  life  ;  his  reputation 
is  uninjured, — onl}^,  I  fear  this  present  passion,  the  mad- 
ness of  an  old  man,  will  cany  him  too  far ;  3'es,  it  will 
tear  awa}'  the  screen  I  have  so  long^held  between  our 
home  and  the  world.  Ah!  for  twent^'-four  ^ears  I  have 
held  it  up !  behind  it  I  wept  alone,  with  no  mother,  no 
friend,  no  help  except  religion ;  but  I  have  maintained 
the  family  honor  all  those  years." 

Hortense  listened  to  her  mother  with  fixed  ej^es.  The 
calm,  resigned  voice  of  this  supreme  sorrow  silenced 
the  angrj^  voice  of  the  younger  woman's  first  wound  ; 
tears  came,  and  came  in  torrents.  In  a  rush  of  filial 
devotion,  overcome  by  the  sublimit}'  of  her  mother's  life, 
she  fell  on  her  knees  before  her,  and  caught  the  hem  of 
her  dress  and  kissed '  it,  as  pious  Catholics  kiss  the 
sacred  relics  of  a  martyr. 

"Rise,  my  Hortense,"  said  the  baroness;  "such 
feeling  shown  b}'  my  daughter  blots  out  man}-  a  cruel 
memor}' !  Come  to  my  heart,  which  holds  thy  sorrows 
onl}'.  The  grief  of  ni}-  little  girl,  whose  joy  was  my 
sole  jo}',  has  broken  the  sepulchral  seal  which  nothing 
less  could  take  from  my  lips.  Yes,  I  meant  to  carry 
my  sorrows  to  the  grave  —  a  winding-sheet  of  grief ! 


Cousin  Bette.  811 

To  calm  thine  anger,  I  have  spoken  ■ —  God  will  pardon 
me  !  Rather  than  see  thy  life  like  my  life,  what  would 
I  not  do?  Men,  the  world,  chance,  nature,  God  —  all, 
all  sell  us  love  at  the  price  of  cruel  torture.  Ten  happj^ 
years  have  cost  me  twenty-four  of  despair  and  bitter- 
ness and  endless  suffering." 

"Yon  had  ten  years,  m}'  own  mamma,  and  I  but 
three  !  "  said  the  loving  egoist. 

"All  is  not  lost,  my  little  one;  wait  till  3'ou  sec 
Wenceslas." 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  he  lied  to  me  ;  he  has  wilfully 
deceived  me.  He  said,  '  I  will  not  go.'  lie  said  it  be- 
fore the  cradle  of  his  child  ;  and  he  went !  " 

"  My  darling,  men  for  their  own  pleasure  commit  the 
basest  actions,  villanies,  crimes, — it  seems  to  be  in 
their  nature.  We  women  are  vowed  to  self-sacrifice. 
I  thought  my  sorrows  were  coming  to  an  end :  alas ! 
the}'  begin  anew  ;  I  little  thought  I  should  suffer  again 
in  the  sufferings  of  m}'  daughter.  Courage  and  silence  ! 
M}'  Hortense,  swear  to  speak  to  none  but  me  of  j'our 
trials  ;  to  let  no  others  suspect  them.  My  child,  show 
the  pride  of  3'our  mother." 

Hortense  shuddered,  for  at  that  moment  she  heard 
her  husband's  step. 

"  It  seems  that  Stidmann  came  here  for  me  just  after 
I  had  gone  to  see  him,"  said  Wenceslas  as  he  entered 
the  room. 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  Hortense,  with  the  savage  iron}^  of 
?\\  offended  woman  who  uses  speech  as  a  dagger. 

"Yes,  I  have  just  met  him,"  answered  Wenceslas, 
acting  surprise. 

"  What  of  yesterday  ? "  said  Hortense. 


i 


312  Cousiyi   Bette. 

'^  M}-  dear  love,  I  cleceiA'ed  you;  but  your  mother 
shall  judge  between  us."  ,^ 

His  frankness  softened  his  wife's  heart.  AH  noble 
^  women  prefer  truth  to  falsehood.  The}^  cannot  bear  to 
see  their  idols  disgrace  themselves  ;  the}'  choose  to  be 
proud  of  the  masters  the}-  accept. 

"  Hear  me,  my  dear  mother,^^  said  Wenceslas ;  "  I 
love  xny  good  and  gentle  Hortense  so  trul}"  that  I  have 
hidden  the  extent  of  our  embarrassments  from  lier. 
How  could  I  do  otherwise?  She  is  still  nursino-  her 
child,  and  more  anxiet}'  would  have  injured  her.  You 
know  what  risks  a  woman  runs  at  such  times.  Her 
beaut}",  her  freshness,  even  her  health  are  in  danger. 
Did  I  do  wrong?  she  thought  we  ow^ed  five  thousand 
francs,  when  in  fact  I  owe  twice  as  much.  Yesterda}* 
I  was  in  the  depths  of  despair.  No  one  is  ever  willing 
to  lend  money  to  an  artist ;  persons  distrust  us,  they 
distrust  our  talents  and  our  caprices.  I  asked  in  vain  ; 
Lisbeth  alone  offered  us  her  savings." 

"  Poor  woman  I  "  said  Hortense. 

"  Poor  Bette  !  "  echoed  her  mother. 

"But  Lisbetli's  two  thousand  francs  —  what  were 
they?  a  drop  in  the  bucket.  Then  our  cousin  spoke 
(as  3'ou  know,  Hortense) ,  of  Madame  Marneffe,  who, 
she  thought  —  out  of  pride,  owing  all  she  has  to  the 
baron  —  would  lend  us  the  money  without  interest. 
Hortense  wished  to  pawn  her  diamonds.  The}*  might 
have  brought  a  few  thousand  francs,  but  we  needed  ten 
thousand.  Here  were  the  ten  thousand  offered  to  us 
for  a  year  without  interest.  I  said  to  nwself :  Hortense 
need  never  know  ;  I  will  go  myself  and  get  them.  The 
woman  asked  my  father-in-law  to  invite  me  to  dinner 


Cousin  Bette.  313 

yesterday,  .and  let  me  know  throngli  Lisbeth  that  I 
should  then  receive  the  monej'.  How  can  Hortense,  at 
twenty-four  years  old,  fresh  and  pure  and  virtuous  — 
she  who  is  ni}-  glory  and  m,y  happiness,  whom  I  have 
never  quitted  for  a  day  since  our  marriage  —  how  can 
she  imagine  that  I  prefer  —  what?  a  sallow,  faded, 
washed-out  woman,"  he  added,  using  a  slang  term  of 
the  studios  to  make  Hortense  believe  in  his  contempt 
b}'  lone  of  those  extravag^^Tcondemnations  that  gratify 
the  female  min^ 

"Ah,  if  3'our  father  had  reasoned  with  me  thus!" 
exclaimed  the  baroness. 

Hortense  threw  herself  on  her  husband's  breast. 

"  Yes,  that  is  whaf  I  should  have  done,"  said  Ad- 
eline. "  Wenceslas,  ui}-  friend,  3-our  wife  has  nearly 
died  of  anxiety.  SheVis  yours.  Alas,"  thought  the 
mother,  sighing  deeph',  and  thinking  what  all  women 
think  after  the  marriage  of  their  daughters,  "he  can 
make  her  a  martyr  or  a  haj^py  woman.  It  seems  to 
me,"  she  said  aloud,  "  that;\I  suffer  enough  to  deserve 
to  have  m}'  children  happy."! 

"  Do  not  be  anxious,  dear  Imam  ma,"  said  Wenceslas, 
overjo3'ed  at  the  fortunate  termination  of  the  crisis  ;  "  in 
two  months  I  shall  have  earned  the  money  and  returned 
it  to  that  horrible  woman.  What  else  could  I  do?  "  he 
added,  using  that  essentialh'  Polish  phrase  with  natural 
Polish  grace.  "  There  are  moments  when  we  are  will- 
ing to  borrow,  mone}'  of  the  devil.  After  all,  it  is  famil}^ 
money.  And  the  invitation  once  given,  I  should  never 
have  got  the  money  had  I  replied  to  it  rudelj'." 

"Oh,  mamma,  what  harm  papa  has  done  us  !  "  cried 
Hortense. 


314  Cousin  Bette. 

The  baroness  put  a  finger  on  her  lip,  and  Hortense 
regretted  the  words,  the  first  blame  she  had  ever 
allowed  herself  to  utter  against  a  father  so  heroically 
defended  by  sublime  silence. 

"  Good-by,  m}-  dear  children,"  said  Madame  Hulot. 
''It  is  all  sunshine  now.  Never  be  angiy  with  each 
other  again." 

When,  after  taking  the  baroness  to  the  door,  Wen- 
ceslas  and  his  wife  returned  to  their  own  room,  Hor- 
tense said  to  her  husband,  "  Tell  me  all  about  last 
evening."  And  she  watched  his  face  during  the  recital, 
which  she  interrupted  now  and  then  b}^  questions 
which  spring  naturall}^  to  a  wife's  lips  in  such  a  case. 
The  account  she  received  made  her  thoughtful ;  she  per- 
ceived clearly  enough  the  diabolical  enjoj'ments  artists 
must  find  in  such  vicious  societ}'. 

"Be  frank,  dear  Wenceslas  ■ — Stidmann,  Claude 
Vignon,  and  Yernisset  were  present,  who  else?  Did 
30U  enjo}^  it ?  " 

"I?  I  thought  of  nothing  but  that  ten  thousand 
francs ;  I  said  to  m3'self.  The}'  will  relieve  m}'  Hortense 
of  all  anxiety." 

This  questioning  was  becoming  intolerably  annoying 
to  the  Pole,  and  he  seized  a  moment's  respite  to  sa}^  to 
Hortense,  "  What  would  you  have  done,  my  darling, 
had  I  been  guilty  ?  " 

"  I?  "  she  said.  "  I  should  have  taken  Stidmann  — 
without  loving  him,  be  it  understood." 

"Hortense!"  cried  Steinbock,  springing  up  with  an 
almost  theatrical  movement,  ' '  you  would  never  have 
had  time  to  do  it,  —  I  should  have  killed  you !  " 

Hortense   threw  herself  on    her   husband's    breast, 


Cousin   Bette.  315 

clasped  him  to  suffocation  in  her  arms,  and  covered 
him  with  kisses,  crying  out :  "  Ah  I  you  love  me,  Wen- 
ceslas  !  I  fear  nothing  now.  But  no  more  Marneffe  ! 
Don't  plunge  again  into  such  mud-holes." 

"  T  swear  to  you,  m}-  Hortense,  that  I  will  never  go 
back  there  until  I  take  the  money  to  pay  my  note." 

She  was  cold  for  a  while,  like  other  loving  women  who 
pretend  coldness  to  gain  a  profit  in  the  end.  Wenceslas, 
wear}^  of  the  scene,  left  her  alone  to  sulk  as  she  pleased 
and  went  off  to  his  atelier  to  make  the  rough  model  for 
Samson  aud  Delilah,  the  drawing  of  which  was  in  his 
pocket.  Hortense,  regretting  her  manner  and  thinking 
Wenceslas  displeased,  followed  him  some  time  later,  and 
reached  the  atelier  just  as  her  husband  had  finished  man- 
ipulating the  cla}',  with  that  fury  which  takes  possession 
of  an  artist  in  the  grasp  of  fanc3\  "When  he  saw  his 
wife  he  flung  a  wet  cloth  over  the  roughl}'  modelled  fig- 
ures and  took  Hortense  in  his  arms,  exclaiming :  — 

"  We  are  not  angrj-  with  each  other,  are  we,  my 
Ninette  ? " 

Hortense  had  seen  the  group  and  the  cloth  thrown 
hastil}'  over  it,  though  she  said  nothing :  but  before 
leaving  the  atelier  she  turned  round,  hfled  the  wet 
rag,  looked  at  the  sketch,  and  said  :  — 

'- What  is  that?" 

"  An  idea  that  has  come  into  my  head." 

"Why  did  3'ou  hide  it  from  me?" 

"  I  did  not  want  3'Ou  to  see  it  till  finished." 

"  That  woman  is  very  prett}' !  "   said  Hortense. 

And  again  suspicion  grew  in  her  mind,  as  in  the 
Indies  those  rank  vegetations  spring  up,  tall  and 
tufted,  in  a  single  night. 


316  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  FIVE  FATHERS  OF  THE  MARNEFFE  CHURCH. 

By  the  end  of  three  weeks  Madame  Marneffe  was 
deepl}^  incensed  against  Hortense.  Women  of  her  kind 
have  their  own  form  of  self-love  ;  the}'  choose  that  others 
shall  obe}'  their  devil's-spur  ;  the}'  never  forgive  a  virtue 
which  either  does  not  fear  their  power  or  wrestles  with  it. 
Wenceslas  had  not  paid  a  single  visit  in  the  rue  Van- 
neau,  —  not  even  the  one  which  courtes}- demanded  to 
thank  a  woman  for  posing  as  Delilah.  Each  time  that 
Lisbeth  had  gone  to  the  Steinbocks'  she  found  no  one 
at  home  ;  monsieur  and  madame  spent  their  whole  time 
at  the  atelier.  Lisbeth,  pursuing  the  turtle-doves  to 
their  nest  at  Gros-Caiilou,  saw  Wenceslas  hard  at  work 
and  ascertained  from  the  cook  that  madame  never 
left  him.  Wenceslas  had  yielded  to  the  despotism  of 
love.  Valerie  now  shared  Lisbeth's  hatred  of  Hortense 
on  her  own  account.  Women  are  as  desirous  of  a  lover 
whom  other  women  tr}'  to  hold  as  men  are  of  the  women 
whom  other  men  desire.^  The  reflections  which  we  make 
about  Madame  MarneflTe  apply  equall}^  to  men  of  gal- 
lantr}',  who  are,  in  a  sense,  male  courtesans.  A^alerie's 
fancy  for  Wenceslas  became  rabid  ;  she  was  determined 
in  the  first  place  to  get  her  group,  and  she  was  thinking 
of  going  to  see  him  at  his  atelier  when  an  event  hap- 


Cousin  Bette.  317 

pened  which  may  be  called,  in  the  case  of  such  women, 
fructus  belli.  Valerie  announced  this  absolutely  per- 
sonal fact  as  she  was  breakfasting  with  Lisbeth  and 
Monsieur  Marnetfe. 

"  Marneffe,  did  3'ou  know  you  were  about  to  be  a 
father  for  the  second  time  ? " 

"  No  !  reall}'?     Ah,  let  me  kiss  3'ou  —  " 

He  rose  and  made  the  circuit  of  the  table  ;  his  wife 
held  her  head  at  him  so  that  the  kiss  fell  on  her  hair. 

"  That  will  make  me  head  of  my  department  and  of- 
ficer of  the  Legion  of  honor !  Ha,  ha,  my  little  girl ! 
But  I  don't  want  Stanislas  to  be  injured,  poor  little 
thing." 

"Poor  little  thing  indeed!"  cried  Lisbeth.  '^  It  is 
six  months  since  you  have  seen  him  ;  they  think  1  'm 
his  mother  at  school,  for  I  am  the  onl}'  one  of  the  famil}' 
who  ever  inquires  for  him." 

''  A  child  that  costs  a  hundred  francs  a  month  !  "  ex- 
claimed Valerie.  "Besides,  he  is  reall}' yours,  Marneffe, 
and  3'ou  ought  to  pa}'  his  schooling  out  of  3'our  salary'. 
The  new-comer,  instead  of  being  a  drain  upon  us,  will 
keep  us  rich." 

"  Valerie,"  said  Marneffe,  imitating  Crevel's  attitude, 
"  I  hope  Monsieur  le  baron  Hulot  will  take  care  of 
his  son,  and  not  put  the  cost  of  the  child  on  a  poor 
clerk  ;  I  shall  be  ver3'  exacting  with  him  on  that  point. 
Therefore,  be  read3'  with  your  proofs,  madame.  Tr3' 
to  get  letters  in  which  he  speaks  of  his  happiness  ;  the 
fact  is,  he  hangs  lire  too  long  about  m3^  appointment." 

Marneffe  departed  to  the  ministr3',  where  the  inesti- 
mable friendship  of  his  director  allowed  him  to  go  at 
the  late  hour  of  eleven  ;   he  had  little  or  nothing  to  do 


318  Cousin  Bette. 

when  there,  by  reason  of  his  notorious  incapacity  and 
his  aversion  to  work. 

Left  alone,  Lisbeth  and  Valerie  looked  at  each  other 
for  a  moment  like  a  pair  of  witches,  and  then  they  both 
burst  into  fits  of  laughter. 

"But;  Valerie,  tell  me,  is  it  true,"  said  Bette,  "or 
are  3'ou  playing  a  farce?" 

"  It  is  a  physical  fact !  "  answered  Valerie.  "  Hortense 
aggravates  me.  Last  night  I  bethought  me  of  firing 
the  infant  like  a  bomb  into  the  Steinbock  household." 

Valerie  returned  to  her  bedroom,  followed  by  Lisbeth, 
to  whom  she  showed  the  following  letter. 

AVenceslas,  my  friend,  I  still  believe  in  your  love,  though 
I  have  not  seen  you  for  nearly  a  month.  Do  you  despise  me  ? 
Delilah  refuses  to  believe  it.  Can  it  be  that  you  are  under 
the  tyranny  of  the  woman  whom  you  told  me  you  had  ceased 
to  love  ?  Wenceslas,  you  are  too  great  an  artist  to  let  yourself 
be  ruled  in  that  way.  Such  a  home  is  the  grave  of  glory. 
Ask  yourself  if  you  still  resemble  the  Wenceslas  of  the  rue 
du  Doyenne.  You  failed  on  my  father's  monument;  but  the 
lover  is  superior  to  the  artist,  — you  have  triumphed  with  the 
daughter.  My  adored  AVenceslas,  you  are  a  father.  If  you 
do  not  come  to  see  me  in  the  state  in  which  I  find  myself, 
you  will  sink  in  the  estimation  of  your  friends.  But  I  know 
myself;  I  know  that  I  love  you  madly,  and  that  I  at  least 
can  never  curse  you.     May  I  call  myself  forever 

Thy  Val]'.rik? 

"What  do  you  say  to  sending  that  letter  to  the 
atelier  at  a  time  when  our  dear  Hortense  is  sure  to 
be  there  alone?"  asked  Valerie.  "  Stidmann  told  me 
last  night  that  Wenceslas  was  to  meet  him  at  eleven 
o'clock  at  Chanor's  ;  so  tliat  minx  of  a  Hortense  will  be 
alone." 


Cousin  Bette.  319 

"If  3'oii  play  siicli  a  trick  as  that,"  said  Bette,  "  I 
can't  continue  ostensibly  your  friend  ;  I  shall  have  to 
leave  this  house,  and  be  supposed  to  neither  see  you  nor 
speak  to  you." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Valerie,  "  but  —  " 

"  AYell,  never  mind,"  interrupted  Bette.  "  We  shall 
see  each  other  when  I  marrj^  the  marshal.  T/iei/  are 
all  eager  for  the  match ;  the  baron  is  the  only  one 
who  knows  nothing  about  it ;  you  must  make  him  agree 
to  it." 

"  But,"  answered  Valerie,  "  perhaps  my  own  position 
with  the  baron  will  be  rather  ticklish  now." 

"  Madame  Olivier  is  the  onl}"  person  j'on  can  trust 
to  get  that  letter  to  Hortense  ;  3'ou  must  send  it  to  the 
rue  Saint-Dominique  before  she  goes  to  the  atelier." 

"  Oh,  the  little  fool  will  be  sure  to  be  at  home," 
answered  Madame  Marneffe.  ringing  for  Reine  to  fetch 
Madame  Olivier. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  fatal  letter  had  been  despatched, 
the  baron  arrived.  Madame  Marneffe  sprang  with  a 
kittenish  action  into  his  arms. 

"Hector,  you  are  a  father,"  she  whispered  in  his 
ear. 

Perceiving  a  certain  amazement  which  the  baron  was 
not  quick  enough  to  conceal,  she  assumed  a  chilling  air 
which  tortured  that  official.  She  made  him  drag  the 
proofs  from  her,  one  b}-  one.  As  soon  as  conviction, 
prompted  b}'  vanity,  had  entered  the  old  man's  mind, 
she  talked  to  him  of  Marneffe's  fury. 

"  My  dear  old  veteran,"  she  said,  "  3'OU  positively 
must  make  your  responsible  editor  —  ours  if  you  like  — 
head  of  his  department  and  officer  of  the  Legion  of 


320  Cousin   Bette. 

honor ;  for  3'ou  have  rinned  the  man  ;  he  adores  his 
bo}^,  Stanislas.  I  detest  the  httle  monster,  for  he  is  so 
hke  him  !  If  3'ou  prefer  it  3^011  might  settle  twelve  hun- 
dred francs  a  3'ear  on  Stanislas,  —  the  capital,  of  course  ; 
the  income  to  be  paid  to  me." 

"  If  I  do  that  I  prefer  to  put  the  capital  in  m3^  own 
son's  name,  and  not  in  that  of  the  '  little  monster,'  as 
3'ou  call  him,"  said  Hulot. 

This  imprudent  speech,  in  which  the  words  "  m3" 
son  "  set  the  stream  a-flowing.  was  enlarged  at  the  end 
of  an  hour's  talk  into  a  formal  promise  to  settle  twelve 
hundred  francs  a  3'ear  on  the  coming  infant.  The 
promise  once  made,  it  became  in  Valerie's  hands  like  a 
drum  in  possession  of  a  small  bo3',  an  instrument  on 
which  she  pla3'ed  for  the  next  twent3"  da3^s. 

At  tbe  ver3'  moment  when  Baron  Hulot,  happy  as 
the  husband  of  a  3'ear's  standing  anxious  for  an  heir, 
was  leaving  the  rueVanneau,  Madame  Olivier  had  man- 
aged to  make  Hortense  drag  out  of  her  Valerie's  let- 
ter to  Steinbock,  which  she  said  she  w^as  charged  to  put 
into  no  hands  but  his.  The  3'oung  wife  bought  the  letter 
for  twent3'  francs.  Suicides  pa3-  for  their  opium,  their 
pistols,  their  charcoal.  Hortense  read  the  letter  ;  then 
she  re-read  it.  She  saw  only  the  white  paper  barred  witli 
black  lines  ;  nothing  existed  in  nature  but  that  paper. 
All  was  chaos  about  her.  The  blaze  of  the  conflagra- 
tion wliich  was  burning  up  her  happiness  illuminated 
the  letter  in  the  deep  darkness  that  surrounded  her. 
The  shouts  of  her  little  "Wenceslas,  who  was  plaving 
near,  came  to  her  ear  as  if  from  the  depths  of  a  valle3" 
far  below  her.  Insulted  in  her  3'outh,  her  beauty,  her 
pure  and  devoted  love,  it  was  not  a  dagger-thrust  that 


Cousin  Bette.  321 

wounded  her,  —  it  was  death  itself.  The  shock  given 
a  few  weeks  earlier  had  been  purely  nervous;  the  body 
writhed  in  the  agonies  of  jealousy  ;  but  conviction  now 
entered  the  soul,  and  the  body  became  non-existent. 
Hortense  remained  full}^  ten  minutes  in  this  paralyzed 
condition.  The  spirit  of  her  mother  then  appeared  to 
her,  and  a  change  took  place  ;  she  grew  cold  and  calm, 
and  recovered  her  reason.    Then  she  rang  the  bell. 

"  Let  Louise  help  3'ou,  m}^  dear,"  she  said  to  the  cook. 
"  Pack  up  everything  that  is  mine  in  this  house  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  all  that  belongs  to  m}'  son.  I  give  you 
two  hours  to  do  it  in.  When  all  is  readj'  call  a  coach 
and  let  me  know.  Make  no  remarks.  I  leave  this  house, 
and  Louise  will  go  with  me.  You  will  sta}'  with  mon- 
sieur;  take  good  care  of  him." 

She  entered  her  bedroom,  sat  down  at  her  writing- 
table,  and  wrote  the  following  letter  :  — 

IMoNsiEUR  LE  COMTE,  —  The  enclosed  letter  will  explain 
the  reasons  for  a  resolution  which  I  have  taken. 

AVhen  you  read  these  lines  I  shall  have  left  your  house,  to 
live  with  my  mother;  and  I  shall  have  taken  my  child  witli 
me. 

Do  not  expect  me  to  return.  Should  you  attribute  my 
action  to  the  hasty  passion  of  youth  or  the  anger  of  offended 
love,  you  will  greatly  deceive  yourself. 

I  have  thought  deeply,  during  the  last  two  weeks,  on  life, 
on  love,  on  our  union,  and  our  mutual  duties.  I  know  to 
its  full  extent  my  mother's  self-devotion  ;  she  has  told  me 
her  trials.  She  has  been  hourly  heroic  for  twenty-four  years  ; 
but  I  have  not  the  strength  to  imitate  her,  — not  that  I  have 
loved  you  less  than  she  has  loved  my  father,  but  for  other 
reasoi.s  which  are  derived  from  my  own  nature.  Our  home 
would  become  a  hell ;  I  might  lose  my  self-command  to  the 

21 


322  Cousin  Bette. 

point  of  dishonoring  you,  myself,  my  child.  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  a  Madame  Marneffe;  but  in  such  a  career  a  woman  of 
my  nature  might  not  be  able  to  stop  short.  1  am,  unhappily 
for  me,  a  Hulot  rather  than  a  Fischer. 

Alone,  and  out  of  sight  of  your  immoralities,  I  can  answer 
for  myself;  above  all  when  occupied,  as  I  shall  be,  with  the 
care  of  my  child  beside  my  strong  and  noble  mother,  whose 
life  must  react  on  the  tunmltuous  action  of  my  heart.  There 
I  can  be  a  good  mother ;  there  I  can  bring  up  our  son ;  there 
I  can  live.  Were  I  to  remain  with  you,  the  wife  would  kill 
the  mother,  and  our  incessant  quarrels  would  embitter  my 
nature. 

I  can  accept  death  at  a  blow ;  I  will  not  be  a  dying  woman 
for  twenty-four  years,  like  my  mother.  Ah !  monsieur,  you 
have  begun  earlier  than  my  father  that  career  of  licentious- 
ness, of  waste,  and  dissipation  which  degrades  the  head  of 
a  family,  diminishes  filial  respect,  and  leads  at  last  to  shame 
and  to  despair. 

I  am  not  implacable.  It  does  not  become  such  feeble  beings, 
living  in  the  sight  of  God,  to  be  unforgiving.  If  you  win  fame 
and  fortune  by  faithful  labor,  if  you  renounce  the  company 
of  wantons  and  the  path  of  shame  and  all  uncleanness,  you 
may  recover  a  wife  who  is  worthy  of  you. 

I  believe  you  are  too  truly  a  gentleman  to  have  recourse 
to  law.  You  will  respect  my  wishes.  Monsieur  le  comte,  by 
leaving  me  with  my  mother.  I  request,  above  all,  that  you 
will  never  come  to  see  me.  I  have  left  you  all  the  money 
which  you  borrowed  from  that  woman.    Adieu. 

HORTENSE   HuLOT. 

The  letter  was  written  in  anguish ;  Hortense  gave 
way  to  tears,  to  the  strangling  cries  of  passion.  81ie 
laid  down  the  pen  and  took  it  up  again  and  yet  again, 
endeavoring  to  say  simph*  what  love  usually  declaims 
passionately  in  such  parting  letters.    Her  heart  exhaled 


Cousin  Bette.  323 

itself  in  cries  and  moans  and  tears ;  but  reason  dictated 
the  words. 

When  Louise  told  her  mistress  that  all  was  ready 
Hortense  rose  and  walked  slowly-  through  the  garden, 
the  salon,  the  bedroom,  looking  at  all  things  for  the 
last  time.  She  gave  earnest  directions  to  the  cook  to 
look  after  her  master's  comfort,  promising  to  reward 
her  well  if  she  were  faithful.  Then  she  got  into  the 
coach  with  a  breaking  heart,  weeping  (to  the  great  dis- 
tress of  her  maid),  and  kissing  the  little  Wenceslas  with 
a  frantic  ardor  which  beti'ayed  how  much  love  was  still 
given  to  the  father. 

Adeline  had  alreadj"  heard  from  Lisbeth  that  the 
baron  was  much  to  blame  for  the  wrong-doing  of 
his  son-in-law.  She  was  not  surprised  at  the  arrival 
of  her  daughter ;  she  approved  of  her  course,  and  con- 
sented to  keep  her.  Recognizing  at  last  that  gentle- 
ness and  self-devotion  had  never  restrained  her  Hec- 
tor, for  whom  her  affection  was  beginning  to  diminish, 
she  now  thought  her  daughter  wise  in  taking  other  meas- 
nres.  Within  a  few  weeks  the  poor  mother  had  re- 
ceived two  fresh  wounds,  whose  tortures  almost  sur- 
passed those  she  had  alread3-  endured.  The  baron  had 
thrown  Victorin  and  his  wife  into  difficulties  ;  and  now, 
according  to  Lisbeth,  he  was  the  cause  of  his  son-in- 
law's  depravity.  The  honor  of  the  father,  so  long  main- 
tained b^'  the  unwise  sacrifices  of  the  mother,  was  now 
abased.  The  3'oung  Hulots,  while  not  regretting  their 
monej',  were  distrustful  of  the  baron.  Their  feelings 
were  visible  enough  to  grieve  Adeline  deepW ;  she  fore- 
saw tlie  breaking-up  of  the  famil}'. 

The  baroness  irave  her  dauo:hter  the  use  of  the  dinino;- 


324  Cousin  Bette. 

room,  which  was  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom,  thanks  to  the 
marshal's  money  ;  the  vast  antechamber  then  became, 
as  in  man}'  famihes,  the  dining-room. 

When  Wenceslas  reached  home  and  read  the  two  let- 
ters, he  was  seized  bj^  a  feeling  of  jo}'  mingled  with  sad- 
ness. Living  on  parole,  as  it  were,  to  his  wife,  he  had 
inwardly  rebelled  against  this  new  form  of  imprison- 
ment a  la  Lisbeth.  Surfeited  with  love  for  three  3'ears, 
he  too  had  reflected  during  the  last  two  weeks,  and  he 
found  the  famil}'  burden  too  heavy  to  bear.  Stidmann 
had  just  gratified  his  vanity  by  congratulating  him  on 
the  love  he  had  inspired  in  Vak'rie  ;  for  Stidmann,  with 
a  hidden  motive,  flattered  the  husband,  hoping  to  console 
the  wife.  Wenceslas  was,  in  fact,  overjo3'ed  to  find  him- 
self free  to  return  to  Madame  Marneffe  ;  and  yet  as  he 
recalled  the  pure,  unalloyed  happiness  he  had  enjoyed 
for  three  years,  and  the  perfections  of  his  wife,  her 
wisdom,  her  innocent  and  artless  love,  he  keenly  re- 
gretted her.  He  longed  to  rush  to  her  mother's  house 
and  ask  her  pardon  ;  but  instead  of  that  he  did  just  what 
Crevel  and  Hiilot  had  done  before  him  ;  he  went  to  see 
Madame  Marneff'e,  carrying  with  him  his  wife's  letter  to 
show  her  the  catastrophe  of  which  she  was  the  cause,  and 
to  recoup,  as  it  were,  his  misfortune  by  the  smiles  of 
his  mistress.  He  found  Crevel  alreadj'  there.  The  ma3'or, 
puflfed  up  with  self-complacency,  was  walking  about  the 
room  like  a  man  in  the  throes  of  some  tumultuous  feeling. 
He  struck  an  attitude  as  if  about  to  speak  and  dared 
not  do  so.  His  countenance  shone  ;  he  drummed  with 
his  fingers  on  the  window  pane ;  he  gazed  at  Valerie 
with  touching  tenderness.  Happily  for  him  Lisbeth 
made  her  appearance. 


Cousin   Bette.  325 

''Cousin,"  he  said  in  her  ear,  "do  }^ou  know  the 
news,  —  I  am  a  father  !  I  fear  I  love  my  poor  Celestine 
a  httle  less.  Ah,  what  it  is  to  have  a  child  hy  a  woman 
3'ou  adore  !  —  to  unite  tlie  paternity  of  the  heart  with  the 
paternity  of  the  blood.  Cousin,  say  to  Valerie  for  me 
that  I  shall  toil  for  that  child ;  I  will  make  him  rich. 
She  told  me  she  thought,  from  certain  indications,  that 
it  would  be  a  bo}'.  If  it  is  a  bo}',  I  am  determined  that 
he  shall  be  called  Crevel ;  I  shall  consult  my  notary." 

"I  know  how  much  she  loves  you,"  said  Lisbeth, 
"  but  for  the  sake  of  your  future  and  hers  control  3'our- 
self,  —  don't  rub  your  hands  in  that  way." 

While  this  aside  was  going  on  Valerie  had  got  back 
her  letter  from  Wenceslas  and  was  whispering  something 
in  his  ear  which  soon  put  an  end  to  his  depression. 

"  Now  3'Ou  are  free,  dear  friend,"  she  said.  "  Great 
artists  should  never  many,  should  the\'?  You  exist  only 
through  fanc}'  and  by  freedom.  Ah,  my  poet,  I  will 
love  you  so  well  that  3'ou  shall  never  regret  your  wife. 
And  yet,  if,  like  most  people,  you  wish  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances I  will  undertake  to  make  Horteuse  go  back 
to  3'ou." 

"  I  wish  it  were  possible,"  said  Wenceslas. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is,"  said  Valerie,  piqued.  "  Your  poor 
father-in-law  is  a  thorough  man  of  the  world  who  likes, 
out  of  vanit3',  to  have  the  appearance  of  being  loved  ;  he 
wants  to  make  people  believe  he  has  a  mistress.  It  is 
1)3^  that  particular  form  of  vanit3'  that  I  rule  him.  The 
baroness  is  so  fond  of  her  Hector  (like  the  Iliad,  is  n't 
it?)  that  the  two  old  people  will  soon  persuade  Hortense 
to  be  reconciled.  But  remember,  if  you  don't  want  to 
have  tempests  at  home  never  desert  your  mistress  again 


826  Cousin    Bette. 

for  nearly  a  month,  —  I  should  die  of  another  such  period 
of  neglect.  M3'  dearest,  when  a  man  is  a  nobleman  he 
owes  every  consideration  to  a  woman  whom  he  has  com- 
promised and  brought  to  the  condition  I  am  in  ;  above 
all  when  that  woman  has  a  reputation  to  maintain. 
Stay  to  dinner,  my  angel,  —  and  remember  I  must  seem 
cold  to  you  —  to  3'ou,  the  author  of  my  miserable 
fault ! " 

Baron  Montez  was  announced  ;  Valerie  rose  and  ran 
to  meet  him,  whispering  in  his  ear  and  making  the  same 
conditions  of  reserve  and  coldness  that  she  had  just  ad- 
dressed to  Wenceslas ;  for  the  Bi'azilian  wore  a  diplo- 
matic countenance  appropriate  to  the  great  news  which 
filled  him  with  joy,  —  for  he  was  certain  of  his  paternity. 

Thanks  to  successful  strateg}-,  based  on  the  vanity 
and  self-love  of  man  in  the  condition  of  lover,  Valerie 
sat  down  to  dinner  surrounded  by  four  J03'ful,  ani- 
mated, fascinated  men,  each  feeling  that  she  adored 
him  alone,  while  Marneffe  called  them  all,  under  his 
breath  to  Lisbeth,  including  himself  in  the  categor}', 
"  the  five  fathers  of  the  church.^' 

Baron  Hulot  seemed,  at  first,  rather  thoughtful.  On 
leaving  his  office  that  morning  he  had  gone  to  see  the 
director  in  charge  of  the  appointments  and  promotions 
at  the  War  office,  —  a  general,  and  an  old  comrade  of 
thirty  3^ears'  standing.  To  him  he  spoke  of  his  desire 
to  appoint  Marneffe  in  place  of  Coquet,  who  had  agreed 
to  resign. 

"  M3'  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  ask 
this  favor  of  the  Marechal  unless  you  and  I  are  first 
agreed  about  it." 

'' M3'  dear  friend,"  replied  the  other,  "  allow  me  to 

4 


Coiisin    Bette.  327 

sa\'  that  for  your  own  sake  you  ought  not  to  press  that 
appouitment.  I  have  ah-eady  told  you  what  I  think  of 
it.  It  woukl  create  a  scandal  in  your  department, 
where  too  much  is  already  being  said  about  3'ou  and 
Madame  Marneffe.  All  this  is  between  ourselves.  I 
don't  wish  to  touch  your  tender  spot,  nor  to  diso- 
blige you  in  an}'  wa}',  and  1  'II  prove  it.  If  you  are 
really  determined  to  ask  for  Coquet's  place  (the  man 
will  be  a  loss  to  the  War  office  where  he  has  been  em- 
l)loyed  since  1809),  I  will  go  into  the  countr}'  for  a 
couple  of  weeks,  and  leave  the  field  open  to  you  with 
the  Marechal,  who  loves  you  like  his  own  son.  I  can 
thus  be  neutral,  neither  for  nor  against  you,  and  I  shall 
have  done  nothing  in  violation  of  my  conscience  as  a 
public  official." 

''Thank  you,"  said  Hulot ;  "I  will  reflect  on  what 
you  have  said  to  me." 

"  If  I  make  these  remarks,  my  dear  friend,  it  is 
that  I  am  more  concerned  for  3-our  personal  interests 
than  for  my  own  feelings.  The  Marechal,  however, 
will  decide  the  matter.  We  get  so  much  blame  on  all 
sides  that  a  little  more  or  less  scared}'  signifies  !  Under 
the  Restoration,  men  were  appointed  for  tlie  appoint- 
ment's sake  and  no  one  thought  of  the  public  service. 
You  and  I  are  old  comrades  —  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  baron,  "and  it  was  because  of 
our  old  friendship  that  —  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  his  friend,  seeing  the  anxiety 
on  Hulot's  face.  "I  will  make  that  journe}',  old  com- 
rade. But  take  care  ;  30U  have  enemies,  —  that  is  to  say, 
persons  who  want  your  splendid  situation  and  all  its 
perquisites ;   and  you  are  moored  by  onl}'  a  single  an- 


328  Cousin  Bette. 

chor.  Ah  !  if  3-011  were  a  deputy  like  me,  yoxx  need  fear 
nothing.     As  it  is,  mind  what  3-ou  are  about." 

This  advice,  given  in  a  friendl}"  spirit,  made  a  great 
impression  upon  the  councillor  of  state. 

"But  tell  me,  Roger,  is  there  anything  behind  all 
this?    Be  frank  with  me." 

The  individual  named  Roger  looked  at  Hulot ;  then 
he  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"  We  are  such  old  friends  that  I  ma}'  venture  to  give 
3'ou  a  word  of  advice.  If  you  want  to  hold  3'our  office 
make  your  bed  so  that  3-ou  can  lie  in  it.  If  I  were  you, 
instead  of  asking  the  Marechal  to  appoint  MarnefFe  to 
Coquet's  place,  I  should  ask  him  to  use  his  influence  to 
retain  me  on  the  regular  service  of  the  Council  of  State, 
where  I  could  die  in  peace ;  and  then,  like  the  beaver, 
I  should  abandon  my  directorship  at  the  War  office  to 
the  pursuers." 

' '  What  can  3'ou  mean  ?  the  Marechal  would  not 
forget  —  " 

"  Old  friend,  the  Marechal  has  so  abl}-  defended  3'ou 
before  a  council  of  ministers  that  the3'  have  given  up 
the  idea  of  getting  3-ou  turned  out  —  but  it  was  dis- 
cussed. Therefore,  give  them  no  further  ground  of — 
but  I  will  sa3'  no  more.  Just  now  3'ou  can  make  3'our 
conditions  and  become  peer  of  France  if  3'ou  like.  If 
3'ou  wait  too  long,  or  if  3'ou  give  them  an3'  handle 
against  3'Ou,  I  will  not  answer  for  the  consequences  — 
Now,  do  3'Ou  wish  me  to  go  into  the  countr3'  ?  " 

"  Wait ;  I  will  see  the  Marechal  m3-self,"  said  Hulot, 
"  and  I  will  send  m3'  brother  to  sound  him." 

We  may  imagine  the  state  of  mind  in  which  the  baron 
came  to  dine  with  Madame  Marneffe ;    he  had  almost 


Cousin   Bette.  329 

forgotten  that  he  was  to  be  a  father.  Rosjer  had  done 
an  act  of  true  and  lo3'al  friendship  by  thus  enlight- 
ening him  oh  his  real  position.  Nevertheless,  such  was 
Valerie's  power  over  him  that  by  the  middle  of  dinner 
he  had  put  himself  in  harmony  with  his  compan}',  and 
became  all  the  gayer  because  he  had  anxieties  to  stifle. 
The  unhappy  man  little  knew  that  on  this  very  evening 
he  was  to  find  himself  caught  between  his  happiness 
and  the  danger  revealed  to  him  b}'  his  friend ;  that  is, 
he  was  to  be  forced  to  choose  between  Madame  Mar- 
neffe  and  his  own  official  position. 


830  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XX Y. 

SUMMARY   OF   THE    HISTORY    OF   THE    FAVORITES. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  just  as  the  part}'  reached  a 
climax  of  ga^et}',  the  salon  being  full  of  people,  Valerie 
took  Hector  to  a  corner  sofa. 

''  My  old  man,"  she  said  in  his  ear,  "your  daughter 
is  so  irritated  against  Wenceslas  for  coming  here  that 
she  has  left  him.  She  has  no  sense.  Ask  Wences- 
las to  show  3'ou  a  letter  the  little  fool  has  written  to 
him.  This  separation  of  the  loving  couple,  of  which  I 
am  supposed  to  be  the  cause,  may  do  me  incredible 
harm ;  that 's  the  wa}'  virtuous  women  attack  each 
other.  It  is  scandalous  to  play  the  victim  for  tlie 
purpose  of  throwing  blame  upon  a  woman  whose  only 
crime  is  to  make  her  salon  agreeable.  If  you  love  me 
you  will  get  me  out  of  the  scrape  by  reconciling  the 
turtle-doves.  Besides,  I  am  not  at  all  anxious  to  re- 
ceive your  son-in-law  in  m}'  house ;  3'ou  brought  him 
here,  now  take  him  away.  If  you  have  an}'  authorit}' 
in  your  own  family  it  seems  to  me  }'ou  ought  to  require 
your  wife  to  manage  this  reconciliation.  Tell  the  good 
old  lady  from  me  that  if  she  and  her  daughter  accuse 
me  unjustly  of  interfering  with  the  young  people's  hap- 
piness and  troubling  the  peace  of  a  household  by  cariy- 
ing  away  both  father  and  son,  I'll  merit  my  reputation, 


Cousin   Bette.  331 

and  torment  them  as  much  as  I  choose.  Lisbeth  act- 
ually talks  of  leaving  me  !  She  prefers  her  family  to 
me,  and  I  can't  blame  her.  She  says  she  won't  sta^' 
here  unless  the  young  people  come  together  again.  If 
she  goes  I  know  our  expenses  will  be  trebled  —  " 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  the  baron,  referring  to  his 
daughter's  proceeding,  "'  I  shall  put  that  to  rights." 

"  Well,"  said  Valerie,  "  there 's  another  thing.  About 
Coquet's  place?" 

"That,"  said  Hulot,  looking  another  way,  "  is  a 
much  more  difficult  matter,  not  to  sa}'  an  impossible 
one." 

"  Impossible  !  vay  dear  Hector  !  "  exclaimed  Madame 
Marneffe,  in  a  low  voice,  "don't  3'ou  know  it  would 
drive  xny  husband  to  extremities?  I  am  in  his  power; 
he  is  immoral  and  self-interested  after  the  fashion  of 
most  men,  but  he  is  also,  like  all  little  minds,  exces- 
siveh'  vindictive.  In  the  condition  in  which  3'ou  have 
put  me,  I  am  at  his  mere}'." 

Hulot  made  a  vehement  gesture. 

"  He  will  only  leave  me  in  peace  on  condition  that 
he  gets  that  appointment.  It  is  infamous,  but  it's 
logical." 

"  Valerie,  do  you  love  me?  " 

"  That  question,  in  the  state  I  am  in,  is  impertinent, 
my  dear  friend." 

"  Well  then,  if  I  so  much  as  attempt  to  ask  the  Mare- 
chal  to  appoint  Marneffe  I  shall  lose  ni}'  own  place  and 
Marneffe  will  be  dismissed." 

"  I  thought  that  you  and  the  Prince  were  the  closest 
friends.  " 

"  So  we  are  ;  he  has  proved  it ;  but,  m}'  dearest,  there 


332  Cousin  Bette. 

is  a  power  above  the  Marechal ;  for  instance,  there 's  the 
council  of  ministers.  Perhaps  b}'  and  b}^,  by  steering 
carefully,  we  could  manage  it ;  but  we  shall  have  to 
wait  till  they  want  some  service  out  of  me  ;  then  I  can 
give  them  my  sprat  for  your  herring  —  " 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  that  to  Marneffe,  he  would  do  us 
some  ill  turn.  No,  tell  him  3'ourself  that  he  must  wait, 
I  dare  not.  Ah,  I  know  my  fate ;  he  knows  how  to 
punish  me  !  —  Don't  forget  about  the  twelve  hundred 
a-3'ear  for  the  little  one." 

Hulot  took  Marneffe  apart,  feeling  that  his  happi- 
ness was  seriousl}'  in  danger  ;  and  he  abandoned  for  the 
first  time  his  usual  haughty  tone  to  that  individual,  so 
alarmed  was  he  by  Valerie's  terror. 

"Marneffe,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "  your  matter 
was  brought  up  to-da^^ ;  but  you  won't  get  the  appoint- 
ment as  head  of  your  division  —  not  yet,  we  must  take 
time  —  " 

"I  shall  get  it,  Monsieur  le  baron,"  said  Marneffe, 
curtl3\ 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow  —  " 

"  I  shall  get  it.  Monsieur  le  baron,"  repeated  Mar- 
neffe, glancing  coolly  first  at  the  baron  and  then  at 
Valerie.  "You  have  put  m}^  wife  under  the  necessit}' 
of  keeping  well  with  me,  —  and  I  shall  hold  her  to  it ; 
for,  my  dear  friend^  she  is  charming,"  he  added,  with 
horrible  irony.  "  I  am  master  here,  far  more  than  you 
are  master  at  your  ministr3\" 

The  baron  was  seized  with  one  of  those  spasms  of 
mental  pain  which  affect  the  heart  like  a  throbbing  tooth- 
ache ;  the  tears  almost  came  into  his  eyes.  During  this 
short  scene  Valerie  had  whispered  in  Henri  Montez's  ear 


Cousin  Bette.  333 

the  same  threat  of  Marneffe  in  order  to  get  rid  of  him 
for  a  short  time. 

Crevel  alone  among  the  faithful  four,  the  possessor 
of  that  thrift}'  little  house,  was  exempted  from  this 
measure  ;  and  his  face  shone  with  a  beatified  air  tliat 
was  actually  insolent,  in  spite  of  the  reprimands  which 
Valerie  gave  him  by  frowns  and  significant  grimaces. 
His  radiant  paternity  was  proclaimed  on  every  feature. 
As  Valerie  approached  him  to  whisper  a  reproachful 
w^arning  he  seized  her  hand  and  said :  — 

"•  To-morrow,  my  duchess,  3'ou  shall  have  ^our  little 
mansion  !  " 

"  And  the  furniture?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  I  have  a  thousand  shares  in  the  Versailles  Railwaj', 
left  bank,  bought  at  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  francs  ; 
they  are  going  up  to  three  hundred  because  of  the  junc- 
tion of  the  two  roads,  —  1  'm  in  the  secret.  Your  house 
shall  be  furnished  like  the  Queen's  palace  !  —  But  you 
promise  to  be  mine  onl}',  don't  3'ou?  " 

"  Yes,  old  ma3'or! "  she  said,  smiling ;  "but  do  behave 
3'ourself  properlj' ;  respect  the  future  Madame  Crevel." 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  said  Lisbeth,  taking  the  baron's 
arm,  "  I  shall  go  and  see  Adeline  earl}'  to-morrow  morn- 
ing ;  for,  5'ou  understand,  I  cannot  decently  remain 
here.  I  shall  go  and  keep  house  for  jour  brother  the 
marshal." 

"•  I  am  going  home  to-night,  mj'self,"  said  Hulot. 

"Well  then,  I'll  come  to  breakfast  to-morrow,"  an- 
swered Lisbeth,  smiling. 

She  understood  how  necessary  her  presence  would 
be  in  the  family  scene  which  was  to  take  place  on  the 
morrow.    In  the  morning  she  went  round  by  Victorin's 


334  Coudn   Bette. 

liouse  and  told  him  of  the  separation  of  Hortense  and 
Wenceslas. 

When  the  baron  reached  home,  about  half-past  ten  at 
night,  Mariette  and  Louise,  who  had  done  a  hard  day's 
work,  were  just  closing  the  door  of  the  apartment,  so 
that  Hulot  had  no  need  to  ring  the  bell.  Grieving  over 
his  enforced  virtue,  he  went  straight  to  his  wife's  room. 
Through  the  open  door  he  saw  her  kneeling  before  her 
crucitix,  lost  in  prayer,  in  one  of  those  expressive  atti- 
tudes which  make  the  fame  of  painters  and  sculptors 
when  they  are  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  represent 
what  the}'  have  once  seen.  Adeline,  carried  awa}'  by 
her  emotion,  cried  aloud,  "  M3'  God,  in  mere}'  to  us,  en- 
lighten him  !  "  It  was  thus  that  she  prayed  for  her  Hec- 
tor. At  the  sight,  so  different  from  the  scene  he  had 
just  quitted,  and  at  the  words,  dictated  by  the  events  of 
the  da}',  the  baron,  much  moved,  gave  A'cnt  to  a  sigh. 
Adeline  turned  round,  her  face  bathed  in  tears.  She 
fancied  her  prayer  was  heard,  and  making  one  bound, 
she  clasped  her  Hector  in  her  arms  with  the  strength 
of  joyful  passion.  Poor  woman  !  she  had  laid  aside  all 
feminine  desires,  sorrow  had  quenched  all,  even  the 
memory  of  them.  Nothing  remained  to  her  but  mother- 
hood, family  honor,  and  the  pure  affection  of  a  Christian 
wife  for  a  misguided  husband,  the  sacred  tenderness 
which  survives  all  else  in  the  hearts  of  women. 

"Hector,"  she  said,  '"at  last!  have  you  come  back 
to  us?     God  has  taken  pity  upon  our  family  !  " 

"  Dear  Adeline,"  said  the  baron,  entering  the  room 
and  seating  his  wife  beside  him,  "  you  are  the  sainlhest 
human  being  I  have  ever  known  ;  it  is  long  since  I  have 
felt  worthy  of  you." 


Cousin  Bette.  335 

"  It  will  be  so  easy,  clear  friend,"  she  said  taking  his 
hand  and  trembhng  with  nervousness,  "so  easy  for  you 
to  restore  order  —  " 

She  dared  not  go  on,  feeling  that  every  word  implied 
blame,  and  she  would  not  lessen  the  joy  which  tiiis 
home-coming  poured  into  her  heart. 

"  I  have  come  on  account  of  Hortense,"  answered 
Hulot;  '^  she  ma}'  do  us  more  harm  b}'  this  hasty  step 
than  my  absurd  passion  for  Valerie  has  ever  done. 
But  we  will  talk  it  over  to-morrow  morning.  Louise 
says  that  Hortense  is  asleep,  so  I  won't  disturb  her 
now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Madame  Hulot,  suddenly  subdued  and 
saddened  ;  she  saw  that  her  husband  had  returned,  less 
for  the  sake  of  his  famih'  than  for  some  ulterior  pur- 
pose connected  with  Madame  Marnetfe.  "  Leave  her 
in  peace  until  to-morrow.  Poor  child,  she  is  in  a  de- 
plorable condition,  she  has  wept  all  day." 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  baron,  while 
waiting  for  his  daughter  whom  he  had  summoned,  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  vast  uninhabited  salon,  pre- 
paring reasons  with  wiiich  to  conquer  the  most  difficult 
obstinac\'  of  all  to  subdue,  that  of  an  offended  and  im- 
placable 3'oung  woman,  to  whom,  in  her  irreproachable 
3'outh,  the  shameful  compromises  of  the  world  are  yet 
unknown,  because  she  is  above  its  passions  and  its  self- 
interests. 

"Here  I  am,  papa,"  said  Hortense,  pale  with  grief, 
and   speaking  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Hulot  sat  down,  took  his  daughter  by  the  waist,  nrd 
placed  her  on  his  knee. 

"Well,  m}'  dear  child,"  he  said,  kissing  her  brow. 


336  Cousin  Bette. 

"  I  hear  there  is  trouble  in  your  home,  and  that  3'on 
are  carrying  things  with  a  high  hand.  That 's  not  the 
thing  for  a  girl  who  has  been  well  brought  up.  M3' 
Hortense  ought  not  to  take  such  a  decisive  step  as  to 
leave  her  house  and  desert  her  liusband  without  con- 
sulting her  parents.  If  you  had  come  in  the  first  in- 
stance to  3'our  good  and  excellent  mother,  3'ou  would 
not  have  caused  me  the  pain  I  now  feel.  You  don't 
know  the  world,  it  is  ver}'  censorious.  It  ma}'  sa}'  that 
your  husband  has  sent  you  back  to  your  parents. 
Daughters  brought  up  as  3'ou  were  in  their  mothers' 
laps  remain  children  longer  than  other  girls  ;  the}'  know 
little  of  life.  A  fresh  and  artless  passion,  such  as  yours 
for  Wenceslas,  never,  unfortunately,  reflects  ;  it  acts  on 
impulse ;  the  heart  goes  off  at  a  tangent,  the  head  fol- 
lows. You  must  believe  your  old  father  who  has  come 
to  tell  you  that  your  conduct  is  not  becoming.  I  will 
not  speak  of  the  deep  pain  you  have  caused  me ;  it 
is  bitter,  for  you  have  cast  blame  on  a  woman  whose 
heart  is  unknown  to  you  and  whose  enmity  may  become 
formidai)le.  Alas,  my  child,  you  do  not  see  that  you, 
so  candid,  innocent  and  pure,  may  be  libelled  and  ca- 
lumniated. And  besides,  my  little  darling,  you  took 
what  was  meant  as  a  joke  seriously.  I  can,  myself, 
assure  you  of  the  innocence  of  your  husband.  Madame 
Marneflfe  — " 

Up  to  this  point  the  baron,  an  artist  in  diplomacy, 
had  carefully  modulated  his  remonstrances.  He  had, 
as  we  have  seen,  managed  the  introduction  of  that  fatal 
name  with  superior  ability,  yet  when  Hortense  heard  it 
she  started  like  a  person  wounded  to  the  quick. 

''  Listen  to  me,"  said  her  father,  preventing  her  from 


Cousin  Bette.  337 

speaking.  "That  lad}'  treats  your  husband  ver\'  coIdl_y. 
Yes,  3'ou  have  been  the  victim  of  some  hoax  ;  I  can 
prove  it  to  3'Ou.     Yesterda}'  Wenceslas  dined  there  —  " 

"What!  he  dined  there?"  cried  the  young  wife, 
springing  to  her  feet  and  looking  at  her  father  with 
horror  in  her  face.  "  Y'esterday !  after  reading  my 
letter !  Good  God  !  why  did  I  not  enter  a  convent 
instead  of  marr3ing !  —  My  life  is  no  longer  mine,  I 
have  a  child  ! "  she  added,  sobbing. 

Her  tears  wrung  her  mother's  heart ;  Madame  Hulot 
emerged  from  her  bedroom  and  clasped  her  daughter  in 
her  arms,  weeping. 

"Tears,  tears!"  said  the  baron  to  himself,  impa- 
tienth',  "  and  all  was  going  so  well!  what  am  I  to  do 
now  with  crying  women  ?  " 

"  M3'  child,"  said  the  baroness,  "listen  to  your  father; 
he  loves  us,  he  is  wise  —  " 

"Come,  Hortense,  m}'  dear  child,  don't  q,yy,  —  it 
makes  3'Ou  ugl}',"  said  the  baron.  "  Now  be  reason- 
able. Go  home  quietl}' ;  I  promise  that  Wenceslas 
shall  not  set  foot  in  the  house.  I  ask  you  to  make  the 
sacrifice  —  if  it  is  a  sacrifice  to  pardon  a  mere  trifling 
fault  in  a  husband  3'OU  love.  I  ask  it  for  the  sake  of 
my  white  hairs,  for  your  mother's  sake  —  3'ou  don't 
wish  to  fill  our  declining  3'ears  with  bitterness  and 
grief?" 

Hortense  threw  herself  wildh'  at  her  father's  feet,  with 
so  passionate  an  action  that  her  hair  fell  loose  as  she 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Father,  3'ou  ask  m3'  life  !  "  she  said  ;  "  take  it  if  30U 
will ;  but  at  least  take  it  pure  and  spotless.  Don't  ask 
me  to  die  dishonored,   criminal !     I  am  not   like  m3' 

22 


338  Cousm  Bette. 

mother  ;  I  cannot  accept  outrage.  If  I  re-enter  married 
life  I  may  strangle  Wenceslas  in  a  fit  of  jealousy  —  or 
worse!  Would  you  mourn  me  living?  the  least  that 
could  befall  me  would  be  madness,  —  I  feel  it  now  at 
my  elbow  !  Yesterday  !  3'esterday  !  he  dined  with  that 
woman  after  reading  my  letter  !  —  Are  all  men  created 
like  that?  Yes,  I  give  you  my  life,  but  grant  "that 
m}^  death  be  not  shameful !  —  His  fault !  3'ou  call  it 
light !  —  to  have  a  child  by  that  woman  !  —  " 

*'A  child!"  cried  Hulot,  stepping  back  two  paces. 
"  Come,  come,  that  is  certainl}'  a  joke  !  " 

At  this  moment  Victorin  and  Bette  entered  the  room 
and  stood  amazed  at  the  scene.  The  daughter  was  pro- 
strate at  the  feet  of  her  father.  The  baroness,  silent 
and  vacillating  between  the  feelings  of  a  mother  and 
those  of  a  wife,  was  convulsed  with  weeping. 

''  Lisbeth,"  said  the  baron,  seizing  tlie  old  maid  by 
the  hand  and  pointing  to  Hortense,  "help  me.  My 
poor  Hortense  has  lost  her  head ;  she  thinks  that 
Wenceslas  is  beloved  bj-  Madame  Marneffe  when  she 
has  onlj^  given  him  an  order  for  a  statuette — " 

"Of  Delilah!"  cried  the  young  woman,  "the  only 
thing  he  has  done  from  inspiration  since  our  marriage. 
He  could  not  work  for  me  or  for  his  son,  but  he  could 
work  with  ardor  for  that  wanton —  Ah,  put  an  end  to 
me,  my  father,  at  once,  for  ever}'  word  3^ou  say  stabs 
me  like  a  dagger." 

Lisbeth  looked  at  the  bai'oness  and  Victorin  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders  with  an  expression  of  pity  as 
she  made  tliem  notice  the  baron,  who  stood  so  that  he 
could  not  see  her. 

"Cousin,"    said  Lisbeth,  addressing  Hulot,   "I  did 


Cousin   Bette.  339 

not  know  what  Madame  Marneffe  was  when  you  asked 
me  to  go  and  live  in  the  stoiT  above  her  and  manage 
her  household  ;  but  in  the  course  of  three  years  a  good 
deal  may  be  learned.  That  woman  is  a  prostitute ! 
one  whose  depravit}'  can  be  compared  onlj'  to  that  of 
her  infamous  and  disgusting  husband.  You  are  the 
dupe,  the  golden  calf,  of  those  creatures,  and  you  will 
be  led  you  don't  know  where  before  they  have  done  with 
you.  I  speak  plainly  because  you  are  falling  into  an 
abyss." 

The  baroness  and  her  daughter,  hearing  these  words, 
looked  at  Lisbeth  with  ej'es  like  those  of  the  faithful 
thanking  a  Madonna  for  saving  their  lives. 

"  That  horrible  woman  is  resolved  to  bring  trouble  into 
your  son-in-law's  home,  —  why,  I  do  not  know  ;  m^'  in- 
tellect is  too  feeble  to  understand  clearly  these  under- 
hand intrigues,  wicked,  shameful,  scandalous  as  the}'  are. 
Your  Madame  Marneffe  does  not  love  Wenceslas,  but 
she  wants  him  at  her  feet  out  of  revenge.  I  have  just 
told  the  wretched  creature  what  I  think  of  her.  She  is 
shameless ;  I  have  left  her  house ;  1  will  not  live  in 
such  a  sink  of  depravity  ;  I  belong  to  you,  to  my  famih'. 
I  knew  that  my  poor  little  cousin  had  left  Wenceslas 
and  I  came  straight  here.  Your  Valerie,  whom  3'ou  take 
for  a  saint,  did  bring  about  this  separation.  Could  I 
stay  in  the  house  of  such  a  woman?  Our  dear  little 
Hortense,"  she  went  on,  touching  the  baron's  arm  sig- 
nificantl}',  "maybe  the  victim  of  a  mere  wish  on  the 
part  of  that  woman,  who,  like  others  of  her  kind,  will 
sacrifice  a  whole  family  to  get  a  jewel.  I  don't  beheve 
Wenceslas  is  guilty,  but  I  know  he  is  weak,  and  I  can- 
not say  that  he  might  not  yield  to  her  insidious  coquetry. 


840  Cousin  Bette. 

My  resolution  is  taken.  The  woman  is  a  curse  upon  your 
life  ;  she  will  bring  3'ou  to  beggar}'.  I  will  no  longer  a[)- 
pear  to  take  part  in  the  ruin  of  the  family;  thongh  in 
truth  for  three  years  past  it  is  I  alone  who  have  hindered 
it.  You  are  deceived,  cousin ;  say  firmly  that  you  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that  appointment  of  Monsieur 
Marneffe  and  see  what  will  happen  !  They  are  prepar- 
ing to  lash  you  about  it." 

Lisbeth  put  her  arms  round  Ilortense  and  kissed  her 
passionately. 

"  Dear  Hortense,  hold  firm,"  she  whispered. 

The  baroness  embi'aced  her  cousin  Bette  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  woman  who  feels  that  another  has 
avenged  her.  The  whole  famil}'  stood  silenth^  around 
the  father,  who  was  quick  to  feel  what  that  silence  de- 
noted. A  formidable  expression  of  anger  crossed  his 
face ;  the  veins  swelled,  the  e3'es  were  suflfused  with 
blood,  the  skin  grew  mottled.  Adeline  flung  herself 
on  her  knees  before  him  and  took  his  hands,  crying 
out.     "  M3"  friend,  my  friend  !  forgive  us  !  " 

"  I  am  odious  to  30U  all,"  said  the  baron,  giving  vent 
to  the  cry  of  his  conscience. 

We  know  our  secret  sins.  We  almost  always  attri- 
bute to  our  victims  the  feelings  of  hatred  wliich,  as  we 
suppose,  vengeance  dictates  to  them  ;  and  in  spite  of  our 
hypocris3",  confession  appears  on  our  faces  or  in  our 
language  at  moments  of  unexpected  torture  ;  just  as  the 
criminal  on  the  rack  confesses  against  his  will. 

"  Our  children,"  he  said,  trying  to  cover  up  the 
inadvertent  confession,  "  end  by  becoming  our  ene- 
mies, —  " 

"  Father,"  said  Victorin. 


Cousm  Bette.  341 

"  Do  you  venture  to  interrupt  your  father?"  said  the 
baron,  in  a  thundering  voice,  looking  at  his  son. 

''Father,"  continued  Victorin,  in  a  firm,  curt  tone, 
the  tones  of  a  puritan  deputy,  "listen  to  me.  I  know 
too  well  the  respect  I  owe  you  ever  to  fail  in  paying  it ; 
you  will  certainl}'  always  find  me  a  most  submissive  and 
obedient  son." 

Persons  who  visit  the  Chambers  habituall}'  will  recog- 
nize in  this  preamble  the  long-winded  parliamentar}^ 
phrases  with  which  the  speakers  soothe  opposition 
and  gain  time. 

"  We  are  far  from  being  your  enemies,"  continued 
Victorin.  "  Monsieur  Crevel,  my  father-in-law,  has  quar- 
relled with  me  because  I  took  up  your  notes  to  Yauvinet, 
the  money  for  which  you  gave  to  Madame  Marneffe. 
Oh !  I  am  not  reproaching  you,"  he  added,  observing 
the  baron's  gesture,  "I  am  onl}' joining  m}'  testimon}^ 
to  tliat  of  my  cousin  Lisbeth,  to  show  30U  that  if  our  de- 
votion to  3'ou,  my  dear  father,  is  blind  and  limitless  our 
pecuniary  resources  are,  unhappily',  very  limited  indeed." 

"Money!"  cried  the  old  man,  falling  into  a  chair, 
overcome  by  this  statement,  —  "such  words  from  m}^ 
son  !     You  will  be  repaid,  sir,"  he  said,  rising. 

He  walked  toward  the  door. 

"Hector!" 

The  cr}^  made  him  turn ;  his  wife  beheld  bis  face 
covered  with  tears,  and  she  flung  her  arms  about  him 
with  the  vehemence  of  despair. 

"  Don't  leave  us  thus  —  not  in  anger  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  I 
have  said  nothing  to  make  you  angry." 

At  her  cry  the  children  fell  on  their  knees  before 
their  father. 


342  Cousin  Bette. 

*'  We  all  love  3'ou,"  said  Hortense. 

Lisbetli,  motionless  as  a  statue,  watched  the  group 
with  a  proud  smile  upon  her  lips.  At  this  moment 
Marechal  Hulot's  voice  was  heard  in  the  antechamber. 
The  whole  familj'  understood  the  importance  of  secrecN', 
and  the  scene  changed  in  a  moment.  The  son  and 
daughter  rose  to  their  feet,  and  all  present  tried  to  con- 
ceal their  emotion. 

Mariette's  voice  was  heard  disputing  with  some  one 
at  the  door,  and  she  presently  entered  the  salon. 

'^  Monsieur,"  she  said  to  the  baron,  "the  quarter- 
master of  a  regiment  just  returned  from  Algeria  says 
he  must  speak  with  3'ou." 

"  Let  him  wait." 

"  Monsieur,"  whispered  Mariette  in  her  master's 
ear,  "  he  told  me  it  was  something  about  Monsieur 
Fischer." 

The  baron  started ;  he  believed  the  man  had  brought 
him  a  sum  of  monej'  which  he  had  asked  of  his  uncle 
two  months  earlier  to  meet  his  notes,  and  he  hastily 
went  into  the  antechamber.  He  saw  that  the  man  was 
an  Alsatian. 

"  Is  this  the  baron  Hulot?  " 

"Yes." 

"Himself?" 

"  Himself." 

The  man,  who  was  fumbling  in  the  lining  of  his  kepi 
during  the  colloquy,  pulled  out  a  letter  which  the  baron 
eagerl}'  opened  and  read  as  follows  :  — 

My  Nephew,  so  far  from  being  able  to  send  you  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  I  must  tell  you  that  my  position  is  not 
tenable  if  you  do  not  make  energetic  efforts  to  save  me.     We 


Cousin    Bitte.  343 

are  saddled  witli  a  public  prosecutor  who  talks  a  gibbeiish  of 
morality  about  the  duties  of  governnieut.  It  is  impossible 
to  make  a  civilian  hold  his  tongue.  If  the  War  office  lets 
the  black  coats  ride  over  it,  I  am  as  good  as  dead.  The 
man  who  carries  this  letter  is  trustworthy;  try  to  get  him 
promoted,  for  he  has  done  us  good  service.  Don't  leave  me 
to  the  crows. 

The  letter  came  like  a  thiinderbolt ;  in  it  the  baron 
saw  the  first  sign  of  those  intestinal  struggles  between 
the  militarv  and  civil  authorities  which  are  carried  on  to 
this  da}'  in  Algeria ;  he  felt  he  must  at  once  devise  a 
remedy  for  the  opening  wound.  He  told  the  man  to 
come  back  on  the  morrow  and  dismissed  him  with  hopes 
of  promotion  ;  then  he  returned  to  the  salon. 

''Good-morning,  and  good-bj,"  he  said  to  his  bro- 
ther. "Adieu,  my  children;  adieu,  dear  Adeline. 
What  is  to  become  of  3'ou,  Lisbeth?" 

"  I  am  going  to  keep  house  for  the  marshal,"  replied 
Bette.  "I  must  fulfil  mv  mission  b}'  doing  you  all  a 
service  in  turn." 

"  Don't  leave  Valerie  till  I  have  seen  you  again,"  said 
Hulot  in  her  ear.  "Adieu,  Hortense,  my  wilful  child; 
try  to  be  more  sensible.  I  have  important  business  to 
attend  to  now,  but  we  will  talk  of  your  submission  later. 
Think  it  over,  my  little  puss,"  he  said,  kissing  her. 

He  was  so  manifestly  troubled  as  he  left  the  room 
that  all  present  felt  the  keenest  apprehension. 

"  Lisbeth,"  said  the  baroness,  "  we  must  find  out 
what  the  matter  is.  I  have  never  seen  Hector  so  upset. 
Stay  two  or  three  days  longer  with  that  woman  ;  he  tells 
her  all,  and  j'ou  might  discover  what  this  new  trouble 
is.     Don't  l)e  anxious  ;  we  will  arranav  vonr  marriage 


344  Cousin  Bette. 

with  the  marshal,  —  in  fact  it  has  now  become  a 
necessit}^" 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  com^age  3'ou  showed  this 
morning,"  said  Hortense,  embracing  Bette. 

"  You  avenged  our  poor  mother,"  said  Victorin. 

The  marshal  noted  with  an  inquisitive  eye.  the  tokens 
of  friendship  thus  bestowed  on  Bette,  who  made  her  way 
back  to  Valerie  and  related  the  whole  scene. 

This  sketch  will  enable  innocent  minds  to  realize  the 
various  kinds  of  havoc  which  the  Madame  Marneffes 
of  social  life  bring  about  in  families,  and  the  means  by 
which  such  harpies  strike  down  hapless  virtuous  women 
apparently  so  far  removed  from  their  own  sphere  of  life. 
But  if  we  transport,  in  thought,  the  like  troubles  to  a 
higher  stage  of  society,  —  to  the  steps  of  a  throne,  — 
and  consider  what  the  mistresses  of  kings  have  cost, 
we  may  estimate  the  obligations  of  a  people  to  sover- 
eigns who  set  an  example  of  good  morals  and  the  purit}^ 
of  famil}'  life. 


Cousin  Bette.  •  345 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A    SUMMONS    WITH   AND    WITHOUT    COSTS. 

All  the  ministerial  departments  in  Paris  are  like 
small  cities  from  which  women  are  banished ;  but  there 
is  as  much  gossiping  and  backbiting  within  their  pre- 
cincts as  if  a  female  population  were  present.  For  the 
last  three  3'ears  the  position  of  Monsieur  Marneffe  had 
been  held  up  to  the  light  of  day  in  the  various  offices, 
and  the  question  was  universal,  "Will  he  or  will  he 
not  be  appointed  in  Coquet's  place?" — just  as  in  the 
Chambers  it  was  formerl}^  asked,  "Will  the  budget  be 
voted,  or  will  it  not  be  voted?"  Ever\'  step  taken  in 
Baron  Hulot's  division  was  scrutinized.  The  shrewd 
dirpcJfoTTrSxr  enlisted  on  his  side  the  man  who  would 
be  injured  by  Marneffe's  promotion,  —  a  clever  worker 
—  telling  him  that  if  he  would  make  wa}"  for  Mar- 
neffe, who  was  reall}^  (lyings  he  should  be  his  successor 
without  fail.  On  the  faith  of  this  promise  the  employe 
worked  for  the  appointment  of  Marneffe. 

When  Hulot,  after  leaving  home,  crossed  the  waiting- 
room  at  his  ministr}^,  he  found  it  already  filled  with 
visitors,  and  in  a  corner  he  beheld  the  pallid  face  of 
Marneffe,  who  was  the  first  man  called  in. 

"What  do  3'ou  want  of  me,  my  dear  fellow?"  said 
Hulot,  endeavoring  to  hide  his  anxiety. 

"Monsieur  le  directeur,  I  am  laughed  at  in  all  the 
departments.     It  appears  that  Monsieur  Roger,  the  ap- 


840  Cousin    Bette, 

pointing  director,  has  left  Paris  to-da}'  to  travel  for  bis 
healtli ;  he  will  be  awa}'  at  least  a  month.  Everybody 
knows  what  waiting  a  month  means.  You  have  deliv- 
ered me  over  to  the  ridicule  of  m}'  enemies.  I  don't 
intend,  monsieur  le  baron,  to  be  drummed  out  in  both 
directions  —  " 

"  My  dear  Marneffe,  it  takes  a  great  deal  of  patience 
to  acconipHsh  a  purpose.  You  can't  be  made  head  of 
3'our  office  for  two  months  3'et,  if  indeed  you  ever  are. 
At  this  moment,  when  I  have  to  strengthen  my  own 
position,  I  cannot  ask  for  a  scandalous  appointment." 

"If  3'ou  are  turned  out  of  office  I  shall  never  get 
the  place  I  want,"  said  Marneffe,  coldly;  "therefore 
you  must  get  me  appointed  at  once.  I  '11  take  neither 
more  nor  less." 

"  Am  I  to  sacrifice  m3'self  to  3'ou?  "  asked  the  baron. 

"  If  not,  I  shall  cease  to  retain  a  good  man3'  of  m3" 
present  illusions  about  you." 

"  You  are  far  too  much  of  a  Marneffe,  Monsieur  Mar- 
neffe," said  the  baron,  contemptuoush',  rising  and  show- 
ing his  subordinate  the  door. 

"•  I  have  the  honor  to  take  leave,  monsieur  le  baron," 
said  Marneffe,  humblv. 

"The  infamous  scoundrel  I "  thought  the  baron.  "This 
is  rather  too  like  a  bandit,  with  his  '  Mone3'  or  3'our  life.' " 

Two  hours  later,  just  as  the  baron  had  finished  in- 
structing Claude  Vignon  (whom  he  intended  to  send  to 
the  Department  of  Justice  to  gather  information  about 
the  civilian  judicial  officers  in  the  district  where  Johann 
Fischer  was  at  work),  Reine  opened  the  door  of  the 
director's  office,  and  gave  him  a  letter,  which  she  said 
said  required  an  answer. 


Cousin  Bette.  347 

**To  send  Reine  !  "  thought  the  baron, —  "what  im- 
prudence! Valerie  is  beside  herself;  she  will  compro- 
mise us  all.  She  will  prevent  the  appointment  of  that 
abominable  Marneff'e." 

He  sent  away  his  private  secretary,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

Ah,  my  friend  I  what  a  scene  I  have  just  gone  through  ! 
If  you  have  made  me  happy  for  the  last  three  years  I  have 
now  paid  dearly  for  it.  He  came  home  from  his  office  in  a 
state  of  fury  that  made  me  shudder.  I  knew  he  was  ugly; 
but  to-day  he  was  hideous,  monstrous.  His  four  remaining 
teeth  chattered;  he  threatened  me  with  his  perpetual  com- 
pany if  I  dared  to  receive  you  in  my  house.  My  poor  old 
dear,  alas!  our  doors  will  be  henceforth  closed  to  you.  You 
see  my  tears,  — they  fall  upon  my  paper  and  bathe  it.  Could 
you  but  read  my  heart !  Oh,  my  Hector!  not  to  see  you!  — 
to  renounce  you!  —  when  I  have  shared  a  little  corner  of 
your  life,  and,  as  I  believe,  your  heart,  —  ah,  I  shall  die  of 
it!  Think  of  our  little  Hector!  Do  not  abandon  me!  And 
yet  I  would  not  have  you  degrade  yourself  for  Marneffe ;  do 
not  yield  to  his  threats.  Ah,  I  love  you  as  I  never  loved  be- 
fore I  I  remember  all  the  sacrifices  you  have  made  for  your 
Valerie.  She  is  not,  she  never  can  be,  ungrateful.  You  are, 
and  ever  shall  be,  my  sole  husband.  Don't  think  again  of 
tlie  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  I  asked  of  you  for  our  dear 
little  Hector,  who  will  be  here  in  a  few  months;  I  am  resolved 
to  cost  you  no  more. 

If  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you,  my  Hector,  you  would  ask 
for  your  retirement;  then  we  would  leave  our  families,  our  an- 
noyances, our  surroundings  where  hatred  reigns,  and  go  with 
Lisbeth  to  some  peaceful  country-place  in  Brittany,  or  where 
you  like.  There  we  should  see  no  one,  we  should  be  happy, 
far  away  from  the  woild.  Your  pension  and  the  little  that  I 
have  in  mv  own  name  would  suffice  for  our  wants.      You 


348  Cousin  Bette. 

have  grown  jealous  of  late,  —  well,  there  you  would  find  your 
Valerie  devoted  solely  to  her  dear  Hector;  you  would  never 
have  to  scold  her  as  you  did  the  other  day. 

My  love!  in  the  exasperated  state  in  which  that  man  lias 
put  me  I  cannot  and  will  not  renounce  the  sight  of  you. 
Yes,  we  must  meet  in  secret,  and  every  day.  I  share  your 
resentment  against  Marneffe;  if  you  love  me,  never  let  him 
have  that  appointment;  let  him  die  as  he  is  —  a  subordi- 
nate!—  My  mind  is  still  distracted,  his  insults  ring  in  my 
ears!  Bette,  who  wished  to  leave  me,  now  pities  me  so  much 
that  she  will  stay  for  some  days  longer. 

My  dear  treasure,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  see  nothing  but 
flight.  I  have  always  adored  the  country,  —  Bretagne,  Lan- 
quedoc,  wherever  it  pleases  you,  if  only  I  am  free  to  love 
you.  Poor  darling,  how  I  pity  you,  forced  to  return  to  your 
old  Adeline,  that  lachrymal  vase!  for  Marneffe  declares  he 
will  watch  over  me  night  and  day  —  he  even  spoke  of  a  po- 
lice spy!  —  No,  do  not  come  to  me.  He  is  capable  of  any- 
thing —  he  who  has  made  me  the  means  of  his  dastardly 
gains.  Would  that  I  could  return  you  every  farthing  of  your 
generous  gifts !  Ah !  my  dear  Hector,  I  may  have  been  co- 
quettish, I  may  have  seemed  to  you  light-minded,  but  you  do 
not  know  your  Valerie;  she  liked  to  torment  you,  but  she 
loves  you  above  all  the  world.  Marneffe  cannot  prevent  your 
seeing  your  cousin,  anli  I  shall  arrange  with  her  some  way 
for  us  to  meet.  Dearest,  write  me  a  line  to  make  me  happy 
since  I  cannot  have  your  presence!  A  letter  will  be  to  me  a 
talisman;  write  me  from  your  very  soul.  I  will  return  the 
letter,  for  M'e  must  be  prudent  ;  I  could  scarcely  hide  any- 
thing from  him,  he  prys  everywhere.  But  I  pray  you, 
reassure  your  Valerie,  your  wife,  the  mother  of  your  child. 
Ah!  to  be  obliged  to  write  to  you  —  I3d^^L:iKive  seen  you 
every  day !  As  I  say  to  Lisbeth,  I  did  notkiK)w  my  happiness 
when  I  had  it.     A  thousand  kisses.     Adieu. 

Thy  Valerie. 


Cousin  Bette.  349 

"  Her  tears  !  "  cried  Hulot  to  himself,  as  he  finished 
the  letter  and  saw  the  blurred  and  indecipherable  signa- 
ture.    "  How  is  she,  Reine?"  he  said  aloud. 

"  Madame  is  in  bed,"  answered  Reine,  *'  she  had  a 
violent  nervous  attack  after  writing  that  letter.  Oh  ! 
it  is  enough  to  break  one's  heart.  8he  heard  Mon- 
sieur coming  up  the  stairs." 

The  baron,  greatly  troubled,  wrote  the  following 
letter  on  a  sheet  of  official  paper  with  its  printed 
headings :  — 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself,  my  angel.  He  shall  die  as  he 
is,  a  sub-director.  Your  idea  is  an  excellent  one;  we  will  go 
far  from  Paris,  and  live  happy  with  our  little  son.  I  will 
ask  for  my  retirement,  and  find  a  situation  on  some  railroad. 
Ah!  my  sweet  Valerie,  I  feel  my  youth  renewed  by  your 
letter.  Yes,  I  will  begin  my  life  anew,  and  I  will  make,  you 
shall  see,  a  fortune  for  our  little  one.  As  I  read  your  letter  — 
a  thousand  times  more  ardent  than  those  of  the  '  Nouvelle 
Heloise '  —  it  worked  a  miracle  within  me;  I  did  not  tliink 
that  my  love  for  you  could  possibly  increase.  You  will  find 
me  to-night  at  Lisbeth's. 

Your  Hector  for  life." 

Reine  carried  off  this  epistle,  the  first  the  baron  had 
ever  written  to  his  sweet  friend.  The  emotions  it  ex- 
cited counterbalanced  the  rumblings  of  the  storm  which 
was  gathering  on  his  horizon ;  at  this  particular  mo- 
ment, however,  Hulot,  feeling  sure  he  could  ward  off 
the  attack  on  his  uncle  Fischer,  thought  only  of  the 
deficit. 

One  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  Bonapartist  character 
is  its  faith  in  the  power  of  the  sabre,  and  its  conviction 
of  the  pre-eminence  of  the  military  over  the  civil  system. 


350  Cousin   Bette. 

Hulot  scorned  a  public  prosecutor  in  Algeria,  a  conntry 
ruled  by  the  War  department.  Man  is  ever  what  he 
has  been.  How  should  the  officers  of  the  Imperial 
Guard  forget  that  they  had  seen  the  mayors  of  the 
good  cities  of  the  empire,  the  prefects  of  the  Emperor, 
little  emperors  themselves,  coming  humbly  to  receive 
the  Guard,  flattering  it  from  end  to  end  of  the  depart- 
ments and  paying  sovereign  homage  to  it? 

At  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon,  the  baron  went  to 
Madame  Marneffe's.  His  heart  beat  as  he  ran  up  the 
stairs  like  a  3'oung  man,  for  the  question  was  in  his 
mind,  "  Shall  I  see  her,  or  shall  I  not  see  her?"  Un- 
der such  circumstances  how  should  he  remember  the 
events  of  the  morning,  or  the  sight  of  his  family  in 
tears  at  his  feet?  Did  not  Valerie's  letter,  placed  in  a 
small  pocket-book  next  bis  heart,  prove  to  him  that  he 
was  better  loved  than  the  most  agreeable  of  younger 
men?  After  rino:ino:  the  bell  the  unfortunate  baron 
heard  the  shuffling  of  Marneffe's  slippers  and  his  odious 
cough.  Marneffe  opened  the  door,  but  not  to  admit 
the  baron;  he  put  himself  in  the  exact  position,  and 
pointed  to  the  stairs  with  precisely  the  same  gesture  as 
Hulot  had  emploj'ed  in  showing  him  to  the  door  of  his 
office. 

"  You  are  by  far  too  much  of  a  Hulot,  Monsieur 
Hulot,"  he  said. 

The  baron  attempted  to  pass  in.  Marneffe  drew  a 
pistol  from  his  pocket  and  cocked  it. 

"Monsieur  le  baron,  when  a  man  is  as  vile  as  I 
am  —  for  30U  think  me  verj'  vile,  don't  a'ou ?  —  he  would 
be  the  worst  of  galley-slaves  if  he  did  not  get  the  profits 
of  the  honor  he  has  sold.     You  mean  war ;  well,  you 


Cousin  Bette.  351 

shall  have  it,  and  without  quarter.  Never  dare  to  re- 
turn here  ;  don't  attempt  to  force  a  wa}'.  I  have  told 
the  commissar}'  of  police  how  matters  stand  between 
us." 

Taking  advantage  of  Hulot's  stupefaction,  he  pushed 
him  out  and  locked  the  door. 

''The  scoundrel!"  muttered  Hulot,  going  up  to 
Lisbeth's  apartment.  "  Now  I  understand  Valerie's 
letter.  Yes,  she  and  I  will  leave  Paris ;  she  is  mine 
for  the  rest  of  my  da3's ;  she  will  close  my  e3'es  at  the 
last." 

Lisbeth  was  not  at  home.  Madame  Olivier  informed 
him  that  she  had  gone  to  Madame  Hulot's,  hoping  to 
meet  him  there. 

"  Poor  old  girl !  I  did  not  think  her  so  clever  as  she 
proved  to  be  this  morning,"  thought  the  baron  as  he 
made  his  wa}'  to  the  rue  Plumet.  At  the  corner  of  the 
rue  Vanneau  and  the  rue  de  Babylone  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  Eden  from  which  Hymen  had  banished 
him,  the  sword  of  the  law  in  hand.  Valerie,  sitting  at 
her  window,  was  gazing  after  him  ;  as  he  raised  his 
head  she  waved  her  handkerchief,  but  the  infamous 
Marneffe  struck  it  down  and  pulled  her  violenth"  back. 
Tears  came  into  the  baron's  e3'es.  "  To  be  thus  loved, 
and  to  see  her  ill-treated  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  to 
be  almost  seventy  years  old  !  " 

Lisbeth  had  gone  to  announce  the  good  news  to  the 
famih'.  Adeline  and  Hortense  already  knew  that  the 
baron,  not  willing  to  disgrace  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the 
government  by  asking  for  Marneffe's  appointment,  would 
find  himself  dismissed  from  the  house  by  that  worthy. 
Poor  Adeline  arranged  her  dinner  hoping  that  he  would 


852  Cousin  Beite, 

find  it  better  than  Valerie's,  and  the  devoted  Bette  was 
assisting  Mariette  to  produce  that  result.  Cousin  Bette 
was  now  the  family  idol;  mother  and  daughter  em- 
braced her,  and  told  her  with  touching  joy  that  the 
marshal  consented  to  let  her  keep  his  house. 

"  And  from  that,  dear  Bette,  there  is  but  one  step  to 
becoming  his  wife,"  said  Adeline. 

"  At  any  rate  he  did  not  sa}^  no  when  Victorin  pro- 
posed it  to  him,"  said  the  Countess  Steinbock. 

The  baron  was  received  b}-  his  familj-  with  such  ten- 
der and  touching  affection  that  he  was  forced  to  conceal 
his  private  distress.  The  marshal  came  to  dinner.  After 
dinner  Hulot  did  not  go  out.  Victorin  and  his  wife 
came  in,  and  thej'  all  pla^'ed  whist. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,  Hector,"  said  the  marshal,  gravelj', 
*'  since  3'ou  have  given  us  such  an  evening." 

These  words  from  the  elder  brother,  hitherto  so  in- 
dulgent to  the  younger  and  now  blaming  him  only  by 
implication,  made  a  great  impression  on  those  present. 
The}'  became  aware  of  a  wound  in  the  old  heart  whose 
painfulness  echoed  in  these  words.  At  eight  o'clock 
the  baron  proposed  to  Lisbeth  to  take  her  home,  prom- 
ising to  return  himself. 

"Lisbeth,"  he  said,  when  they  were  in  the  street, 
'-'-he  ill  uses  her!  Ah!  I  have  never  loved  her  as  I 
do  now !  " 

"  And  I  never  knew  before  how  Valerie  loves  you," 
answered  Bette  ;  "  she  is  frivolous,  coquettish,  and  likes 
to  be  courted  and  flattered  ;  she  wants,  as  she  says  her- 
self, to  have  a  comed}'  of  love  played  about  her,  but 
you  are  her  one  attachment." 

' '  What  did  she  tell  you  to  sa}'  to  me  ?  " 


Cousin  Bette.  353 

"  This,"  said  Lisbeth  :  "  She  has,  as  3'ou  know,  given 
favors  to  Crevel ;  you  must  n't  blame  her,  for  it  has  put 
her  above  want  for  the  rest  of  her  clays  ;  but  she  hates 
him,  and  the  affair  is  about  over.  Well,  she  has  the 
ke}'  of  a  certain  apartment  —  " 

"  Rue  du  Dauphin,"  cried  Hulot ;  "  I  have  been  there, 
I  know  it—" 

"  Here  is  the  ke}',"  said  Lisbeth.  "  Get  another  made 
like  it,  —  two  if  you  can." 

''  And  then?  —  "  cried  Hulot,  eagerly. 

"  Then  to-morrow  I  will  dine  with  30U  and  you  must 
return  me  this  ke}'  (for  old  Crevel  may  ask  Valerie  for 
it),  and  j'ou  can  go  and  meet  her  the  following  day  ;  then 
3'Ou  can  settle  your  future  plans.  You  are  quite  safe 
there,  for  there  are  two  entrances ;  if  Crevel,  who  has 
the  morals  of  the  regency,  as  he  says,  should  happen  to 
come  in  by  the  court  3^ou  can  go  out  by  the  shop,  and 
vice  versa.  Well,  3'Ou  old  scamp,  you  owe  this  to  me, 
—  what  are  vou  ofoinoj  to  do  for  me  in  return?" 

"  An3'thing  3'ou  ask." 

"  Well  then,  don't  oppose  m3'  marriage  with  your 
brother." 

''You,  Marechale  Hulot!  3'OU,  Comtesse  de  Forz- 
heim  !  "  cried  Hector,  amazed. 

"Adeline  is  a  baroness!"  retorted  Bette,  in  sharp 
and  threatening  tones.  "  Listen  to  me,  you  old  liber- 
tine ;  3'ou  know  perfectl3'  well  what  a  state  your  affairs 
are  in  ;  3'our  famil3^  will  soon  be  in  the  gutter  with 
nothing  to  eat." 

"  That's  m3'  dread  !"  cried  Hulot,  gloomily. 

"  If  3'our  brother  were  to  die  who  would  support  3'our 
wife?     The  widow  of  a  marshal  of  France  gets  a  pen- 

23 


354  Cousin  Bette. 

sion  of  six  thousand  francs,  does  n't  she?  Well,  I  wish 
to  many  to  secure  bread  for  your  wife  and  daughter, 
vou  madman !  " 

"  I  did  not  see  it  in  that  light,"  returned  Hulot.  "  Yes, 
I  will  talk  the  matter  up  to  m\'  brother.  We  can  all 
trust  3'ou.     Tell  m}-  dear  angel  that  my  life  is  Aers." 

And  the  baron,  after  depositing  Bette  in  the  rue  Van- 
neau,  returned  home  and  played  whist.  Madame  Hu- 
lot was  now  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  happiness ;  her 
husband  seemed  really  to  have  returned  to  home  life  ; 
for  two  weeks  he  went  dail^'  to  the  War  department, 
came  back  to  dinner  at  six,  and  remained  the  whole 
evening  with  his  family.  He  even  took  Adeline  and 
Hortense  twice  to  the  theatre.  The  motlier  and  daugh- 
ter caused  three  masses  of  thanksgiving  to  be  said, 
praying  God  to  preserve  to  them  the  husband  and 
father  now  restored  to  the  family. 


Cousin  Bette.  355 


CHAPTER   XXYII. 

A   SUMMONS    OF    ANOTHER    KIND. 

One  evening  Victorin  Plulot  remarked  to  his  mother, 
on  seeing  his  father  go  off  to  bed,  "We  ought  to  be 
happ3^  now  that  m}^  father  has  returned  to  his  home. 
Celestine  and  I  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  our  money,  if 
the  change  only  lasts." 

"  Your  father  is  nearly  seventj^  years  old,"  said  the 
baroness.  "He  still  thinks  of  Madame  Marneffe,  —  I 
see  that ;  but  before  long  he  will  forget  her.  A  passion 
for  women  is  like  pla}',  or  speculation,  or  avarice,  — 
there  comes  an  end  to  it." 

The  beautiful  Adeline  —  for  she  was  still  beautiful  in 
spite  of  her  fift\'  3'ears  and  her  bitter  griefs  —  was  mis- 
taken in  this  judgment.  Libertines  —  men  whom  na- 
ture has  endowed  with  the  facult}'  of  loving  be3'ond  the 
limits  which  she  has  fixed  for  love  —  are  never  as  old 
as  their  3'ears.  During  this  period  of  his  lapse  to  vir- 
tue the  baron  went  three  times  to  the  rue  du  Dauphin. 
His  renewed  passion  rejuvenated  him  ;  he  would  have 
sacrificed  his  honor  and  his  famil3'  to  Valerie  without 
a  pang.  But  Valerie,  entireh^  changed,  never  spoke 
to  him  of  mone3',  nor  of  the  twelve  hundred  francs  for 
their  son ;  on  the  contrar3',  she  offered  him  mone3\  She 
seemed  to  love  her  Hulot  as  a  woman  of  thirt3'-six  loves 
a  law-student  who  is  very  poor,  ver3'  poetic,  and  ver3' 


856  Cousin  Bette. 

loving.     All  this  while  poor  Adeline  thought  she  was 
recovering  her  Hector. 

The  fourth  rendezvous  was  to  take  place  at  nine 
o'clock  one  morning.  About  eight  Reine  arrived,  and 
asked  to  see  the  baron.  Hulot,  fearing  a  catastrophe, 
went  out  to  speak  to  her,  not  wishing  that  she  should 
enter  the  apartment.  The  woman  gave  him  the  follow- 
ing note :  — 

My  old  Hero,  —  Don't  go  to  the  rue  du  Dauphin.  Our 
nightmare  is  ill,  and  I  must  nurse  him.  But  be  there  at 
nine  o'clock  this  evening.  Crevel  has  gone  to  Corbeil  to 
stay  with  Monsieur  Lebas,  and  I  am  sure  he  won't  come  to 
the  little  house.  I  have  made  all  my  arrangements  so  that 
I  can  get  back  before  Marneffe  needs  me  in  the  morning. 
Answer  about  all  this.  Perhaps  your  walking  elegy  of  a  wife 
does  not  allow  you  as  much  liberty  as  you  once  had.  They 
say  she  is  still  handsome,  and  that  you  are  capable  of  betray- 
ing me.     Burn  this  letter;  I  distrust  everybody. 

Hulot  wrote  in  replj' :  — 

Dear  Angel,  —  My  wife,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  has 
never  hindered  my  pleasures  for  more  than  twenty-five  years. 
I  would  sacrifice  a  hundred  Adelines  for  you!  I  will  await 
my  divinity  in  Crevel's  temple  at  nine  o'clock  this  evening. 
I  trust  the  sub-director  may  soon  die,  so  that  we  need  never 
be  separated.    That  is  the  dearest  wish  of 

Your  Hector. 

That  evening  the  baron  told  his  wife  that  he  w^as  to 
meet  the  ministers  at  Saint  Cloud,  and  should  not  be 
back  till  the  following  da}' ;  he  then  departed  for  the 
rue  du  Dauphin.     This  was  about  the  end  of  June. 

Few  men  have  lived  to  recall  the  terrible  sensation  of 


Cousin   Bette.  357 

going  to  their  death.  Those  who  come  back  reprieved 
from  the  scaffold  are  soon  counted ;  but  some  dream- 
ers have  vividly  experienced  this  death-agony  in  their 
dreams  ;  the}'  have  even  felt  the  cold  steel  of  the  knife 
upon  their  necks  at  the  instant  when  their  awakening 
delivered  them.  Well,  the  sensation  that  overtook  the 
councillor  of  state  wiien  he  awoke  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  in  Crevel's  prett}'  and  coquettish  apartment, 
far  surpassed  an}'  mere  dream  of  lying  with  one's  liead 
above  the  fatal  basket  in  presence  of  ten  thousand  spec- 
tators gazing  at  us  with  twent}'  thousand  flaming  darts. 
Valerie  was  still  sleeping.  The  baron's  eyes,  wandering 
round  the  room  like  those  of  a  man  just  waking  who 
tries  to  recall  his  ideas,  fell  upon  a  door  covered  with 
flowers  painted  by  Jan,  an  artist  then  in  vogue.  The 
baron  did  not  see,  like  the  man  condemned  to  death, 
twenty  thousand  blazing  eyes ;  he  saw  onlv  one  eye, 
whose  glance,  however,  was  more  piercing  than  the  score 
of  thousands  on  the  place  de  Greve.  This  sensation, 
inasmuch  as  it  came  in  the  midst  of  happiness,  was  cer- 
tainly rare  in  the  case  of  a  condemned  man.  The  baron 
remained  in  his  horizontal  position,  but  a  cold  sweat 
bedewed  his  person.  He  tried  to  doubt  his  senses  ;  but 
the  e3'e  began  to  speak,  and  a  murmur  of  voices  was 
heard  beyond  the  door. 

"•Can  it  be  Crevel  trying  to  play  a  joke  on  me?" 
thought  the  baron,  no  longer  able  to  doubt  that  some 
one  had  invaded  the  temple. 

The  door  opened.  French  law  in  all  its  majest}'  ad- 
vanced in  the  form  of  a  worth}'  little  commissary  of 
police,  accompanied  by  a  tall  justice  of  the  peace  and 
Monsieur  Marneffe.     The  commissary  of  police,  stand- 


358  Cousin  Bette. 

ing  with  his  lower  extremities  in  two  shoes  whose  flaps 
were  tied  with  bows  of  mudd}'  ribbon,  exhibited  above 
a  3'ellow  skull  deficient  in  hair  which  denoted  a  si}'  dog 
and  a  livel}'  one,  for  whom  Paris  held  no  secrets.  His 
e3'es,  covered  with  spectacles,  sent  shrewd  and  sarcastic 
glances  through  the  cr3'stals.  The  justice  of  the  peace, 
an  old  lawyer  and  an  admirer  of  the  fair  sex,  envied 
the  culprit. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  excuse  the  requirements  of 
our  dut}^  Monsieur  le  baron,"  said  the  commissar}^;  "we 
are  summoned  here  b^^  the  complainant.  The  judge  has 
authorized  an  entrance  to  the  domicile.  I  know  3'ou, 
Monsieur  le  baron,  and  also  the  female  delinquent." 

Valerie  opened  a  pair  of  astonished  eves  and  gave 
the  piercing  cry  which  actresses  have  invented  to  ex- 
press madness  on  the  stage.  She  rolled  in  convulsions 
on  the  bed,  like  a  demoniac  of  the  middle  ages  in  a 
brimstone  shirt  on  a  pyre  of  fagots. 

"Death!     Hector!     The  police  court!     Oh,  never! 


never 


\  " 


She  sprang  up  and  darted  like  a  white  cloud  past  the 
three  spectators  and  hid  herself  behind  the  bonheur  du 
jour  in  the  adjoining  room,  with  her  head  in  her  hands. 

"  Lost !  lost !  dead  !  "  she  cried. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Marneffe,  to  Hulot,  "if  my  wife 
becomes  insane  you  will  be  more  than  a  libertine,  you 
will  be  an  assassin." 

What  could  a  man  under  such  circumstances  sa}'? 
As  follows :  — 

"  Monsieur  le  commissaire,  and  you  Monsieur  le 
juge,"  said  the  baron,  with  dignit}',  "have  the  good- 
ness to  care  at  once  for  that  unhappy  woman  whose 


Cousin   Bette.  359 

reason  seems  to  be  in  danger.  Yon  can  continue  3'oiir 
proceedings  later.  The  doors  are  doubtless  locked  ;  be- 
sides, neither  of  us  can  escape  in  the  condition  in  which 
you  find  us." 

The  two  functionaries  complied  with  this  request. 

"  Come  here  and  speak  to  me,  you  miserable  hound  ! " 
said  Hulot,  in  a  low  voice  to  Marneffe,  taking  his  arm 
and  drawing  him  towards  him.  "  It  is  not  I  who  am  the 
assassin,  it  is  you  !  You  are  anxious  to  be  the  head  of 
your  department  and  officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor?" 

"  Extremel}''  anxious,  my  director,"  said  Marneffe, 
bowing. 

"  Well,  3'ou  shall  be.  Go  and  protect  your  wife,  and 
send  awa}'  those  men." 

"Not  so  fast,"  said  Marneffe,  shrewdly.  "Those 
gentlemen  have  to  write  out  the  particulars  of  the 
charge  —  in  flagrante  delicto;  if  I  don't  get  that  paper 
in  hand  what  securit}'  have  I?  You  have  stolen  my 
wife  and  you  have  not  made  me  head  of  my  depart- 
ment. Monsieur  le  baron,  I  give  3'ou  two  daj's  to  do 
it  in,  —  if  not,  here  are  some  letters  —  " 

"  Letters?  "  cried  the  baron,  interrupting  Marneffe. 

"  Yes,  letters  which  prove  that  the  child  m}^  wife  is 
now  carrying  is  yours.  You  understand  me?  You  here 
promise  to  settle  on  my  son  an  income  equal  to  that 
which  3'our  bastard  will  take  from  him.  But  I  will  not 
exact  it.  To-morrow  morning  I  must  be  appointed  suc- 
cessor to  Monsieur  Coquet,  and  named  on  the  list  of 
officers  of  the  Legion  of  honor  at  the  fetes  of  July  next, 
or  —  the  present  charge  made  in  due  form  will  be 
brought  before  the  police  courts.  I  'm  a  good  easy  fel- 
low to  you,  to  set  you  free  on  those  terms,  am  I  not?  " 


360  Cousin  Bette. 

"  What  a  prett}'  woman  !  "  said  the  judge  to  the  com- 
missary of  police  ;  "  it  would  be  pit}'  if  she  went  mad." 

"  She  is  not  mad,"  said  the  commissar}',  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  police  are  doubt  incarnate. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  Hulot  has  fallen  into  a  trap," 
he  continued,  speaking  loud  enough  for  Valerie  to  hear 
him. 

Valerie  gave  him  a  glance  that  would  have  killed  him 
if  eyes  could  stab  with  the  rage  the}'  contain.  The  com- 
missary smiled  ;  he  too  had  set  his  trap,  and  the  woman 
had  tumbled  into  it !  Marneffe  told  his  wife  to  come 
back  into  the  room  and  dress  herself;  he  had  settled 
matters  with  the  baron,  who  took  a  dressing-gown  and 
went  into  the  adjoining  room. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  to  the  two  functionaries,  "  I 
need  not  ask  you  to  keep  this  matter  secret?  " 

The  officials  bowed.  The  commissary  gave  two  little 
taps  on  the  door  and  his  clerk  entered,  sat  down  before 
the  writing-table  and  began  to  write  at  the  dictation  of 
his  superior,  who  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  Valerie  con- 
tinued to  weep  aloud.  When  the  charge  was  formally 
written  out,  jMarneffe  wanted  to  take  away  his  wife ; 
but  Hulot,  believing  that  he  saw  her  for  the  last  time, 
begged  by  a  gesture  to  be  allowed  the  favor  of  speaking 
to  her. 

"Monsieur,  madame  has  cost  me  enough  to  make 
you  willing  that  I  should  bid  her  adieu  —  in  the  pres- 
ence of  all,  of  course,"  he  said. 

Valerie  came  in,  and  Hulot  whispered  quickly, 
"Flight  is  all  that  remains  to  us;  how  can  we  cor- 
respond? some  one  has  betrayed  us." 


Cousin  Bette.  361 

"Reine,"  she  answered  ;  "  but,  my  dear  friend,  after 
this  exposure  we  must  never  see  each  other  again.  I 
am  disgraced.  Besides,  they  will  tell  you  shameful 
things  about  me,  and  you  will  believe  them."  The 
baron  made  a  gesture  of  denial.  "  You  will  believe 
them,  and  I  thank  heaven  for  it,  — you  will  regret  me 
less  —  " 

"  He  will  not  '  die  as  he  is,  sub-director ! ' "  said  Mar- 
neffe  in  the  baron's  ear,  roughl}'  taking  his  wife's  arm  : 
^'  Enough,  madame  ;  if  I  am  weak  towards  3'ou,  I  am 
not  a  fool  toward  others." 

Valerie  left  Crevel's  little  house  with  a  last  glance 
at  the  baron  which  convinced  him  he  was  adored. 
When  the  legal  papers  were  all  signed  the  commissar}' 
of  police  looked  knowing!}'  at  Hulot  over  his  spectacles. 

"You  love  that  httle  lad}',  Monsieur  le  baron?"  he 
said. 

'•'■  To  my  sorrow,  as  you  see." 

"  But  suppose  she  does  not  love  you?  "  said  the  com- 
missary ;    "  suppose  she  has  tricked  you?  " 

"I  know  that  already,  monsieur,  —  here  in  this  very 
place.     Monsieur  Crevel  himself  told  me  so." 

'^  Ah,  then  you  know  that  you  are  in  the  mayor's  little 
sanctum?  " 

"I  do." 

The  commissary  slightly  raised  his  hat  as  if  to  salute 
the  old  man. 

*'  You  are  in  love  and  I  will  hold  my  tongue,"  he 
said,  "  I  respect  inveterate  passions  as  much  as  doc- 
tors respect  chronic  maladies.  I  once  saw  Monsieur  de 
Nucingen,  the  banker,  attacked  by  a  passion  of  that 
nature." 


362  Cousin  Bette. 

*'  He  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  remarked  the  baron  ;  "I 
have  often  supped  with  tlie  beautiful  Esther ;  she  was 
worth  the  two  millions  he  spent  on  her." 

"She  cost  more,"  said  the  commissary,  "the  old 
banker's  fancy  sacrificed  the  li\es  of  four  persons. 
Such  passions  are  like  the  cholera." 

"  What  is  it  that  3'ou  are  trying  to  tell  me?"  said 
the  councillor  of  state,  who  did  not  relish  this  indirect 
advice. 

"  Why  should  I  destro}'  3'our  illusions?  "  replied  the 
commissary  of  police;  "it  is  so  rai-e  to  keep  au}^  at 
your  age." 

"  Relieve  me  of  them,  then  !  "  cried  the  baron. 

"  You  will  curse  your  physician/'  said  the  official, 
smiling. 

"  I  request  it  of  you,  monsieur." 

"  Well,  that  woman  planned  all  this  with  her  hus- 
band." 

"Oh!" 

"  That  is  a  thing  that  happens,  monsieur,  twice  in 
every  ten  cases.    Oh,  we  know  all  about  it!" 

"  What  proof  can  3'ou  give  of  such  collusion?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  the  husband,"  said  the  commis- 
sar}', with  the  calmness  of  a  surgeon  accustomed  to  la}^ 
open  wounds.  "Knavery  is  written  on  that  dull,  in- 
famous face.  But  I  believe  you  value  a  certain  letter 
written  hy  that  woman  in  which  there  is  mention  of  a 
child." 

"  I  value  it  so  much  that  I  carry  it  alwa3's  with  me," 
said  Hulot,  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for  the  little  port- 
folio which  never  left  him. 

"  Leave  the  pocket-book  where  it  is,"  said  the  com- 


Cousin  Bette.  363 

missaiT ;   "here  is  the  letter.     Did  Madame  Marneffe 
know  what  the  pocket-book  contained  ?  " 

"  She  alone." 

"  So  I  supposed.  Here,  then,  is  the  proof  3'ou  ask 
for  of  her  collusion." 

"  Well,  explain,"  said  the  baron,  still  incredulous. 

"  When  we  entered  this  room,  monsieur  le  baron," 
said  the  commissar}',  "  that  rascall}'  Marneffe  passed  in 
first,  and  he  took  the  letter  from  this  piece  of  furniture 
[pointing  to  the  bonheur  du  jou?'],  where  the  woman 
had  doubtless  placed  it.  Evidently',  the  ver}'  spot  where 
she  was  to  place  the  letter,  provided  she  were  able  to 
rob  3'on  of  it  while  you  slept,  had  been  arranged  be- 
tween the  wife  and  husband.  You  see,  of  course,  that 
the  letter  the  woman  wrote  to  3'ou,  together  with  those 
you  wrote  to  her,  are  essential  to  the  legal  charge." 

The  commissary  showed  Hulot  the  letter  which  Reine 
had  brought  to  his  office  at  the  ministry. 

"  Giye  it  back,  monsieur;  it  is  now  part  of  the  in- 
dictment," said  the  official. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Hulot,  whose  face  was  now  dis- 
torted, "  that  woman  is  licentiousness  cut  into  slices. 
I  am  certain  now  that  she  has  three  lovers." 

"  That's  evident,"  said  the  commissary.  "All  pros- 
titutes are  not  in  the  streets.  When  women  take  up 
that  trade,  monsieur,  in  salons  or  their  own  homes,  and 
go  about  in  carriages,  money  is  not  counted  by  francs 
and  centimes.  Mademoiselle  Esther,  of  whom  3'OU  spoke, 
and  who  poisoned  herself,  squandered  millions.  Suffer 
me  to  sa3',  Monsieur  le  baron,  that  if  I  were  3'Ou  I  should 
cut  loose  from  such  things.  This  last  affair  will  cost  3'ou 
dear.    That  scoundrel  of  a  husband  has  the  law  on  his 


364  Cousin  Bette. 

side.     If  it  were  not  for  me  that  little  woman  would 
have  got  you  again  —  " 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  baron,  endeavoring  to  be- 
have with  dignit}'. 

''  Monsieur,  we  are  going  to  lock  up  the  apartment ; 
the  farce  is  played  out.  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
return  the  key  to  Monsieur  Crevel?  " 

Hulot  returned  home  in  a  state  of  despondency  which 
was  almost  prostration  ;  he  was  lost  in  gloomy  thought. 
Waking  up  his  pure  and  saintl}^  wife,  he  poured  the 
history  of  the  last  three  years  into  her  bosom,  weeping 
like  a  child  that  has  lost  its  toy.  This  confession  of  an 
old  man,  young  in  desires,  —  this  horrible  and  blasting 
epic,  —  though  it  moved  Adeline  to  pit}^,  nevertheless 
filled  her  with  the  liveliest  inward  joy.  She  thanked 
Heaven  for  the  blow  by  which  she  beheved  her  husband 
was  driven  at  last  and  forever  to  his  home. 

"  Lisbeth  was  right,"  she  said  in  a  gentle  voice,  and 
without  any  useless  reproaches  ;  "  she  warned  us  of  all 
this." 

"  Yes.  Ah,  if  I  had  only  listened  to  her  instead  of 
getting  angry  that  day  when  I  wanted  poor  Hortense  to 
return  to  her  home  so  as  not  to  compromise  the  repu- 
tation of  that  —  Oh,  my  dear  Adeline  !  we  must  rescue 
Wenceslas  !  he  is  in  the  mire  up  to  his  chin  !  " 

''My  poor  Hector,  the  little  bourgeoise  has  served 
3'ou  no  better  than  the  actresses,"  said  his  wife. 

The  baroness  was  shocked  at  the  change  in  her  hus- 
band. When  she  saw  him  unhappy,  wretched,  bowed 
down  under  the  weight  of  his  anxieties,  she  was  all 
heart,  all  pity,  all  love.  She  would  have  given  her  life's 
blood  to  be  able  to  make  him  happy. 


Cousin  Bette.  365 

*'  Stay  with  us,  dear  Hector.  Show  me  how  it  is  that 
those  women  make  3'ou  love  them  ;  I  will  try.  Why 
have  you  not  made  me  what  you  wanted  of  me?  Is  it 
that  I  am  too  dull?  There  are  some  who  think  me  still 
handsome  enough  to  court." 

Many  married  women,  attached  to  their  husbands  and 
faithful  to  their  duty,  may  well  ask  why  men  who  are 
so  lo3'al,  so  kind,  so  compassionate  to  the  Madame  Mar- 
neffes  never  make  their  wives,  especiall}^  when  they  re- 
semble Adehne  Hulot,  the  objects  of  their  fancy  and 
their  passions.  Here  we  find  one  of  the  deepest  myste- 
ries of  the  human  organization.  Love  —  that  vast  ex- 
cess of  reason,  the  stern  and  virile  pleasure  of  great 
souls  —  and  enjoj'ment  —  the  vulgar  happiness  sold  in 
the  streets  —  are  two  aspects  of  the  same  thing.  The 
woman  who  can  satisf}^  these  two  cravings  of  man's 
double  nature  is  as  rare  in  her  sex  as  the  great  general, 
the  great  writer,  the  great  artist,  the  great  inventor  is 
among  a  people.  The  man  of  superiority  equall}'  with 
the  common  man  —  a  Hulot  as  well  as  a  Crevel  —  feels 
a  need  of  the  ideal  and  of  the  material  pleasure  both ; 
they  all  seek  the  mysterious  hermaphrodite,  the  rare 
being  who  comes  to  them,  as  a  general  thing,  in  two 
volumes.  Libertines,  those  treasure-seekers,  are  as  guilty 
as  other  misdoers  who  are  punished  more  severely  than 
they.  This  reflection  is  not  intended  as  a  moral  aside  ; 
it  gives  the  reason  of  man}^  uncomprehended  sorrows. 
The  present  scene,  however,  carries  with  it  moral  truths 
of  more  than  one  description. 

The  baron  went  at  once  to  the  Marechal  Prince  de 
Wissembourg,  whose  powerful  protection  was  his  last 
resource.     Patronized  by  the  old  warrior  for  tlie  last 


366  Cousin  Bette. 

thirtj^-five  3'ears,  he  had  the  right  to  ask  for  an  audi- 
ence whenever  he  pleased,  and  he  now  went  to  the  mar- 
shal's apartment  at  his  hour  of  rising. 

*'  Well,  good  morning,  my  dear  Hector,"  said  the 
great  and  good  chieftain.  "  What 's  the  matter?  You 
look  worried.  The  session  is  finished,  thank  God,  — 
another  over  and  done  with,  as  I  used  to  say  of  the 
campaigns.  Faith,  I  believe  the  newspapers  now  call 
the  sessions  of  the  Chambers  '  parliamentary^  cam- 
paigns.' " 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  bad,  Marechal ;  but  it  is  the  fault  of 
the  times  in  which  we  live,"  said  Hulot.  "  It  can't  be 
helped  ;  the  world  is  made  so.  Every  epoch  has  its 
disadvantages.  The  great  evil  of  this  present  year  of 
grace  1841  is  that  neither  king  nor  ministers  are  free  to 
act  as  the  Emperor  did." 

The  Marechal  gave  Hulot  one  of  those  eagle  glances 
whose  lucid  brightness,  perspicacity,  and  pride,  showed 
that  in  spite  of  years  the  great  soul  was  ever  vigorous 
and  firm. 

"You  want  something?"  he  said,  assuming  a  playful 
manner. 

"I  am  under  the  necessity  of  asking  a  personal  fa- 
vor, —  the  promotion  of  one  of  my  sub-directors  to  the 
head  of  his  bureau  and  his  nomination  as  officer  of  the 
Legion  of  honor." 

"  What  is  his  name?  "  said  the  Marechal,  with  a  light- 
ning glance  at  the  baron. 

"Marneff"e." 

"  He  has  a  pretty  wife  ;  I  saw  her  at  the  marriage  of 
your  daughter.  If  Roger —  but  Roger  is  not  here  now. 
Hector,  m}'  son  ;  this  concerns  one  of  your  love-affairs. 


Cousin   Bette.  367 

So  you  still  keep  up  that  sort  of  thing  ?  You  do  honor 
to  the  Imperial  Guard?  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  drop 
this  mattei: ;  it  is  too  gallant  to  be  official." 

"  I  cannot,  marechal ;  it  is  a  bad  business  and  threat- 
ens me  with  the  police-court ;  you  would  not  wish  to  see 
me  there?  " 

"The  devil!"  cried  the  Marechal,  grave  at  once. 
"  Go  on." 

"I  am  like  a  fox  caught  in  a  trap.  You  have  always 
been  so  good  to  me  that  I  know  you  will  deign  to  help 
me  out  of  the  humiliating  position  in  which  I  find 
myself  —  " 

And  Hulot  related  his  misadventure  in  the  liveliest 
and  wittiest  manner  he  could  assume. 

"Prince,"  he  said,  as  he  ended,  "would  you  have 
m}'  brother,  whom  you  love  so  well,  die  of  mortification, 
—  could  3'ou  suffer  one  of  your  directors  and  a  council- 
lor of  state  to  be  disgraced?  Marneffe  is  a  degraded 
scoundrel,  but  we  can  retire  him  in  a  3'ear  or  two." 

"  How  lightly  you  talk  of  a  year  or  two,  my  dear 
friend,"  said  the  marshal. 

"  Prince,  the  Imperial  Guard  is  immortal." 

"  I  am  the  only  surviving  marshal  of  the  first  appoint- 
ments," said  the  minister.  "  Hear  me,  Hector  ;  you  do 
not  know  how  truly  I  am  attached  to  3'ou  ;  but  3^ou  shall 
know.  The  day  when  I  leave  the  ministr}'  3'ou  will 
have  to  leave  it  too.  Ah  !  you  are  not  a  deput3^  ^y 
friend.  There  are  plent3'  of  persons  seeking  3'our  place  ; 
and  if  it  were  not  for  me  3'ou  could  not  keep  it.  Yes,  I 
have  broken  man3'  a  lance  in  3'our  behalf  Well,  I  grant 
both  3-our  requests  because  it  would  be  too  hard  to  let 
3'ou  go  into  the  prisoner's-dock  at  your  age  and  in  3'our 


368  Cousin  Bette. 

position.  But  you  have  caused  too  much  gossip  for 
your  own  credit.  If  this  appointment  gives  rise  to 
comment,  we  shall  be  blamed-  As  for  rue  I  don't 
care ;  but  it  w  ill  be  another  thorn  in  3'our  foot ;  at 
the  next  session  3'ou  will  be  turned  out.  Your  place  is 
already-  offered  as  a  bait  to  five  or  six  influential  men,  and 
3'ou  onl}'  keep  it  now  on  the  strength  of  m}^  arguments. 
I  tell  my  colleagues  that  the  day  on  which  your  place 
is  given  to  anotlier  man  there  will  be  five  discontented 
aspirants  and  onh^  one  man  satisfied ;  whereas  so  long 
as  they  keep  you  hanging  by  a  thread  we  are  sure  of 
six  votes.  They  laugh  and  declare  that  the  '  ancient 
of  days,'  as  they  call  me,  is  becoming  a  parliamentary 
tactician.  I  tell  you  this  plainly.  Besides,  you  are 
getting  old,  —  however,  you  are  luck}^  to  be  still  able 
to  get  into  scrapes.  Alas !  where  are  the  days  when 
sub-lieutenant  Cottin  had  his  mistresses ! " 

The  marechal  rang  the  bell. 

"  We  must  tear  up  that  indictment,"  he  said. 

"  Monseigneur,  3'ou  treat  me  like  a  father ;  and  3'et  I 
feared  to  tell  you  ni}"  trouble." 

"  I  wish  Roger  were  here,"  cried  the  marshal,  seeing 
Mitouflet,  the  usher,  enter.  "Go  awaj^,  Mitouflet.  My 
old  comrade,  you  must  make  out  the  papers  for  these 
appointments  3'ourself.  I  will  sign  them  ;  but  that  in- 
famous fellow  shall  not  long  enjo}'  the  fruit  of  his  crimes. 
I  shall  have  him  watched,  and  broken  at  the  head  of  his 
company  as  soon  as  I  catch  him  tripping.  Now  that 
you  are  safe,  my  dear  Hector,  be  careful  in  future.  Don't 
wear  out  3'our  friends.  The  appointment  shall  be  given 
to-day,  and  that  man  shall  be  made  officer  of  the  Legion 
in  Juh'.     How  old  are  you  now  ?  " 


Cousin  Bette.  869 

"  Seventy,  in  three  months." 

''What  a  gay  old  bo}' ! "  said  the  marshal,  smiling. 
"  It  is  you  who  deserve  promotion,  but  —  blood  and  bul- 
lets !  we  are  not  under  Louis  XV  !  " 

Such  is  the  tie  that  binds  these  glorious  relics  of  the 
Napoleonic  phalanx,  who  fancy  they  are  still  in  a  biv- 
ouac and  bound  to  protect  each  other  through  and  against 
all. 

''  One  more  favor  like  that,"  thought  Hulot,  as  he 
crossed  the  courtyard,  "  and  I  am  lost." 

The  unhappy  functionary  now  betook  himself  to  Baron 
Nucingen,  to  whom  he  still  owed  a  comparatively  insig- 
nificant sum  of  money,  and  succeeded  in  borrowing  forty 
thousand  francs  more  by  assigning  over  his  salary'  for 
the  next  two  years ;  but  the  banker  stipulated  that  in 
case  Hulot  lost  his  oflSce  the  available  portion  of  his 
retiring  pension  should  be  given  as  security  for  the  sum 
now  borrowed  until  capital  and  interest  were  both  paid. 
This  new  transaction  was  done,  like  the  former,  in  the 
name  of  Vauvinet ;  to  whom  the  baron  gave  his  note  for 
twelve  thousand  francs.  On  the  following  day  the  fatal 
indictment,  the  complaint  of  the  husband,  and  the  letters, 
were  wiped  out  as  though  they  had  never  existed.  The 
scandalous  appointments  of  the  Sieur  Marneffe  passed 
almost  without  notice  dui'ing  the  bustle  of  the  fetes  of 
July,  and  were  not  commented  upon  even  in  the  news- 
papers. 

24 


370  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A   NOBLE    COURTESAN. 

LiSBETH,  having  apparently  quarrelled  with  Madame 
MarnefFe,  took  up  her  abode  with  Marechal  Hulot. 
Ten  da3's  later  the  first  banns  of  marriage  between  the 
spinster  and  the  illustrious  old  soldier  were  published. 
To  obtain  the  hitter's  consent  Adeline  told  him  of  the 
financial  catastrophe  which  had  overtaken  Hector,  beg- 
ging him  not  to  speak  of  it  to  her  husband,  who,  she 
said,  was  gloomy,  much  depressed,  in  fact  despondent. 
"  Alas  I  he  is  getting  old,"  she  added. 

Lisbeth  triumphed.  She  was  about  to  reach  the  sum- 
mit of  her  ambition  ;  her  plans  were  succeeding ;  her 
hatred  was  satisfied.  She  enjoyed  through  anticipation 
the  happiness  of  reigning  over  a  family  by  whom  she  had 
long  felt  herself  despised.  She  intended  to  be  the  pro- 
tectress of  her  protectors,  the  guardian  angel  of  the 
ruined  household ;  she  bowed  to  her  reflection  in  the 
glass,  calUng  herself  "  Madame  la  comtesse  "^and  "  Ma- 
dame la  marechale."  Adeline  and  Hortense  were 
doomed  to  end  their  days  in  distress,  struggling  with 
poverty,  while  she,  their  despised  cousin  Bette,  received 
at  the  Tuileries,  would  be  a  power  in  societ}'. 

A  terrible  event  upset  the  old  maid's  calculations, 
and  flung  her  from  the  heights  on  which  she  was  proudly 
standino-. 


Cousin  Bette.  371 

The  da}'  after  the  banns  were  first  published  the 
baron  received  a  missive  from  Africa.  Another  Alsatian 
appeared,  delivered  a  letter,  after  convincing  himself 
that  he  gave  it  to  Baron  Hulot  in  person,  and  departed, 
giving  his  address,  and  leaving  the  high  functionary 
stunned  b}-  the  first  words  of  the  epistle  :  — 

Nephew,  —  You  will  receives  this  letter,  as  I  calculate, 
about  the  7th  of  August.  Supposing  that  you  require  three 
days  to  obtain  the  relief  we  need,  and  that  it  takes  fifteen 
more  to  send  it  here,  I  ought  to  get  a  reply  by  the  first  of 
September. 

If  you  accomplish  the  matter  within  that  time  you  will 
save  the  honor  and  the  life  of  your  devoted  Johann  Fischer. 

This  is  what  the  official  whom  you  made  my  accomplice 
demands.  I  am,  it  appears,  liable  to  be  brought  before  either 
the  police  courts  or  a  council  of  war.  You  can  well  believe 
that  no  one  shall  ever  drag  Johann  Fischer  before  any  earthly 
tribunal;  he  will  himself  go  before  that  of  God. 

Your  official  strikes  me  as  a  rascal,  who  will  sooner  or 
later  compromise  you;  but  he  is  a  clever  scoundrel.  He  de- 
clares that  you  ought  to  cry  out  lustily  for  reform,  and  send 
commissions  and  inspectors  specially  charged  to  discover  the 
guilty  parties  and  ferret  out  abuses  and  talk  severely,  while 
in  reality  they  stand  between  us  and  the  courts  by  provoking 
controversy. 

If  you  could  send  such  a  commission,  taking  its  orders 
from  you,  to  be  here  by  September  1,  and  if  you  can  also 
send  us  two  hundred  thousand  francs  with  which  to  fill  the 
storehouses  with  the  supplies  which  we  are  supposed  to  keep 
at  the  distant  stations,  we  shall  be  thought  solvent  and  im- 
maculate. 

You  can  rely  on  the  soldier  who  delivers  this  letter.  Give 
him  a  check  to  my  order  on  any  bank  in  Algiers.  He  is  a 
safe  man,  a  father,  and  quite  incapable  of  seeking  to  know 


372  Cousi7i  Bette. 

what  he  carries.  I  have  taken  measures  to  make  sure  of  his 
safe  return.  If  you  are  unable  to  do  this,  I  shall  die  wil- 
lingly for  one  to  whom  we  owe  the  happiness  of  our  Adeline. 

The  agonies  and  delights  of  his  passion,  and  the 
catastrophe  which  had  just  overtaken  his  career  of  gal- 
lantr}',  had  prevented  Baron  Hulot  from  even  thinking 
of  poor  Johann  Fischer,  whose  first  letter  warned  him 
of  the  danger  now  become  imminent.  The  baron  left 
the  dining-room  in  such  trouble  of  mind  that  he  flung 
himself  on  the  sofa  in  the  salon.  He  was  prostrated, 
benumbed,  under  the  shock  of  such  a  fall.  For  a  while 
he  gazed  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  without  observing 
that  he  held  the  fatal  letter  in  his  hand.  Adeline  heard 
him  fall  on  the  sofa  like  an  inert  mass.  The  noise 
was  so  peculiar  that  she  imagined  an  attack  of  apo- 
plex3\  A  prey  to  the  terror  which  stops  our  breath  and 
holds  us  motionless,  she  looked  through  the  door  into  a 
mirror  on  the  opposite  wall,  and  saw  her  Hector  in  the 
posture  of  a  man  felled  hy  a  blow.  She  went  to  him 
softl}'  on  tiptoe  ;  the  baron  did  not  hear  her ;  she  leaned 
over  him,  saw  the  letter,  took  it,  read  it,  and  trembled 
in  every  limb.  One  of  those  violent  nervous  convulsions 
from  which  the  body  never  entirely  recovers  seized  her ; 
she  became  subject,  a  few  days  later,  to  a  constant  quiv- 
ering motion  of  the  head  ;  for,  after  the  first  horrible 
shock  had  passed,  the  necessitj'  of  action  roused  a 
momentar}^  strength  which  can  be  taken  only  from  the 
very  sources  of  vitality. 

"  Hector,  come  into  my  bedroom,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  was  scarcely  above  a  breath.  "Don't  let 
30ur  daughter  see  you  thus.    Come,  dear  friend,  come." 


Cousin  Bette,  373 

*'  Where  can  I  get  two  hundred  thousand  francs?  I 
could  make  Claude  Vignon  inspector;  he  would  be  faith- 
ful to  me.  That  could  be  managed  in  two  da3's ;  but 
two  hundred  thousand  francs,  —  how  could  I  get  them  ? 
Victorin  has  n't  got  such  a  sum  ;  his  propert}'  is  mort- 
gaged for  three  hundred  thousand  francs.  My  brother 
has  laid  by  very  little  out  of  his  salaries.  Nucingen 
would  laugh  in  my  face.  Vauvinet  —  I  could  scarcely 
get  ten  thousand  francs  for  the  child  of  that  infa- 
mous Marneffe  out  of  him.  No,  it  is  all  over  with 
me.  I  must  go  to  the  Marechal  and  fling  myself  on 
his  mercy  and  confess  all.  I  must  hear  myself  called 
a  scoundrel.  I  'd  rather  receive  a  broadside  and  go  to 
the  bottom  decentl}' !  " 

"  But,  Hector,  this  is  not  ruin  only,  it  is  dishonor," 
said  Adeline.  "My  poor  uncle  will  kill  himself.  Kill 
us,  —  for  3'ou  have  the  right  to  do  so,  —  but  do  not  mur- 
der him.  Take  courage ;  we  must  find  a  way  to  send 
him  this  mone}'." 

"  There  is  no  way,"  said  the  baron.  "  No  one  in 
the  government  could  lay  hold  of  two  hundred  thousand 
francs,  w^ere  it  even  to  save  the  ministry.  Ah,  Napo- 
leon !  why  is  he  no  longer  here  !  " 

"  M}'  uncle,  poor  man  !  Hector,  we  must  not  let 
him  die  dishonored." 

"There  might  be  one  way,"  he  said,  "but  —  it 
is  very  doubtful.  Yes,  Crevel  is  at  daggers  drawn 
with  his  daughter  ;  he  has  monej'  enough  —  he  alone 
could  —  " 

"  Hector,  better  that  3'our  wife  should  perish  than 
that  our  uncle,  3'our  brother,  the  honor  of  our  family 
should  be  destroyed,"  said  Madame  Hulot,  struck  as 


374  Cousin  Bette. 

by  a  flash  of  light.  ''  Yes,  I  can  save  3'ou  all.  —  Oh, 
my  God,  this  shameful  thought !  how  did  it  ever  come 
to  me  ?  " 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  fell  on  her  knees  and  said 
a  prayer ;  then,  rising,  she  saw  an  expression  of  such 
wild  hope  on  her  husband's  face  that  again  the  diabolical 
thought  assailed  her,  and  she  sank  into  a  species  of 
idiocy. 

"  Go,  go,  m}'  friend,  go  to  the  ministr}^"  she  sud- 
denly cried,  rousing  herself  from  this  torpor.  "Try  to 
send  the  inspector ;  wind  the  Marechal  round  your 
finger;  when  you  get  back  here  3'ou  may  find  —  yes, 
you  shall  find  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  Your 
family,  3'our  honor  as  a  man,  as  a  public  officer,  as  a 
member  of  the  government,  your  uprightness,  your  son, 
all  shall  be  saved  —  except  your  Adeline  —  she  must 
perish ;  you  will  never  see  her  again.  Hector,"  she 
said,  kneeling  down  and  taking  his  hand  and  kissing  it, 
•■'  bless  me  and  say  farewell." 

The  scene  was  agonizing ;  as  Hector  raised  his  wife 
and  kissed  her  he  said,  "I  do  not  understand  j'ou." 

'•If  3'ou  did  understand  me,"  she  said,  "I  should 
die  with  shame,  or  I  should  have  no  strength  to  make 
3'ou  this  last  sacrifice." 

"  Breakfast  is  read3^"  said  Mariette. 

Hortense  came  up  to  wish  her  father  and  mother 
good-morning.  It  was  necessar3'  to  gather  round  the 
table  with  deceitful  faces. 

"Take  3'our  breakfast  without  me,"  said  the  baron- 
ess, "  I  will  join  you  later." 

She  sat  down  at  her  table  and  wrote  the  following 
note :  — 


Cousin  Bette.  375 

My  dear  Monsieur  Crevel,  —  I  have  a  service  to  ask 
of  you  ;  will  you  come  to  me  this  morning?     I  rely  on  your 
gallantry,  which  I  know  so  well,  not  to  keep  me  waiting. 
Your  devoted  servant, 

Adeline  Hulot. 

"Louise,"  she  said  to  her  daughter's  maid,  "take 
this  letter  to  the  porter  and  tell  him  to  carry  it  at  once 
to  that  address  and  ask  for  an  answer." 

The  baron,  who  w^as  reading  the  newspapers  when 
she  re-entered  the  room,  handed  her  a  Republican  news- 
paper. Pointing  to  an  article,  he  whispered,  "  Is  there 
still  time?  Read  that;  it  is  one  of  those  hateful  para- 
graphs with  which  they  butter  their  political  muffins." 
The  article. read  as  follows  :  — 

*'  Our  coi'respondent  in  Algiers  writes  that  such  abuses 
have  been  discovered  in  the  commissariat  department  of  the 
Province  of  Oran  that  the  law  has  been  compelled  to  step  in. 
The  malpractices  are  evident,  and  the  guilty  parties  known. 
If  this  evil  is  not  severely  repressed  we  shall  continue  to 
lose  more  men  through  the  extortions  and  peculations  which 
affect  their  rations  than  by  the  lances  of  the  Arabs  or  the 
heat  of  the  climate.  We  await  further  developments  before 
saying  more  on  this  deplorable  subject." 

"  I  shall  dress  and  go  to  the  ministr}'/'  said  the  baron, 
as  he  left  the  table.  "Time  is  precious;  a  man's  life 
hangs  on  every  minute." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  have  no  longer  an}'  hope,"  said 
Hortense  ;  "  see  !  "  Unable  to  restrain  her  tears,  she 
gave  her  mother  a  magazine  devoted  to  the  fine  arts, 
in  which  was  an  engraving  of  Steinbeck's  Delilah  with 
the  words,  "  Group  belonging  to  Madame  Marneffe." 


376  Cousin   Bette. 

Every  line  of  the  accompanying  article,  signed,  "  V.," 
revealed  the  talent  and  the  obligingness  of  Claude 
Vignon. 

"  Poor  darling !  "  said  Madame  Hulot. 

Amazed  at  the  half-indifferent  tone  in  which  her 
mother  said  the  words,  Hortense  looked  up  at  her,  and 
beheld  the  signs  of  a  sorrow  in  presence  of  which  her 
own  griefs  sank  down ;  she  went  up  to  Madame  Hulot 
and  kissed  her,  saying,  ''  Mamma,  what  is  it?  Can  we 
be  more  unhappy  than  we  now  are  ?  " 

"My  child,  my  past  sufferings  seem  to  me  as  noth- 
ing to  those  I  now  endure.  Oh,  when  shall  I  cease  to 
suffer?" 

"  In  heaven,  mother,"  sobbed  Hortense. 

When  Adeline  returned  to  her  room  she  went 
straight  to  the  looking-glass  and  gazed  mournfull}^  and 
searchingly  at  herself  as  if  to  ask,  "  Am  I  still  beau- 
tiful?    Shall  I  still  attract?     Have  I  any  wrinkles?" 

She  pushed  up  the  beautiful  blond  hair  from  her 
temples  ;  they  were  fresh  and  pure  as  those  of  a  3'oung 
girl ;  so  were  the  arms  and  shoulders,  and  a  momen- 
tary' sense  of  pride  came  over  her.  The  beaut}^  of  a 
woman's  shoulders  is  the  last  to  leave  her,  especially  if 
her  life  has  been  a  pure  one.  Adeline  selected  the  ele- 
ments of  her  toilet  carefully  ;  yet  when  all  was  done  the 
chaste  and  pious  woman  was  still  chastelj'  attired,  in 
spite  of  her  little  efforts  at  coquettishness.  Of  what 
use  were  the  gra}^  silk  stockings  and  the  sandalled 
slippers  to  a  woman  wholl}'  ignorant  how  to  show  a 
prett}^  foot  at  a  decisive  moment !  She  wore  her  dain- 
tiest dress  of  muslin,  with  painted  flowers,  made  low 
with  short  sleeves  ;  then,  shocked  at  the  exposure,  she 


Cousin  Bette.  877 

covered  the  beautiful  arms  with  gauze  draperies,  and 
veiled  the  shoulders  with  an  embroidered  scarf.  The 
curls  of  her  hair  a  I'anglaise  struck  her  as  too  signi- 
ficant, and  she  restrained  their  luxuriance  under  an 
elegant  lace  cap  ;  but  with  or  without  a  cap  would  she 
have  known  how  to  play  with  the  golden  ringlets  and 
show  the  grace  of  her  tapering  fingers  ?  Yet  her  anguish 
made  her  a  painted  image :  the  sense  of  her  criminal- 
ity, these  preparations  for  a  deliberate  deed,  burned 
the  devoted  woman  with  an  inward  fever  which  gave 
her  back  the  bloom  of  youth.  Her  complexion  glowed, 
her  eyes  sparkled.  But  this,  instead  of  making  her 
seductive,  gave  her^  and  she  saw  it  with  horror,  an  air 
that  was  almost  shameless.  Lisbeth  had  told  her  the 
circumstances  of  Steinbock's  infidelity,  and  the  baron- 
ess had  then  learned  to  her  amazement  that  in  one 
evening,  in  one  moment,  Madame  Marneflfe  had  made 
herself  mistress  of  the  seduced  artist.  "  How  do  such 
women  manage  it?  "  she  had  asked  Lisbeth.  Nothing 
equals  the  curiosity  of  pure  women  on  this  subject ;  they 
long  to  possess  the  attractions  of  vice,  remaining  vir- 
tuous. "  Why,"  answered  Bette,  "  they  seduce  —  that 's 
their  business.  Valerie  was  seductive  enough  that  night 
to  drag  an  angel  to  perdition,"  "  Tell  me  how  slie 
did  it?"  "Oh,  there  is  no  theory  in  that  trade; 
practice  is  the  one  thing  needful."  The  baroness  now 
recollected  this  conversation.  Poor  woman  !  incapable 
of  inventing  a  mouche  or  putting  a  rose-bud  in  her 
bosom,  or  contriving  any  of  the  stratagems  of  dress 
which  awaken  desire,  she  was  nothing  more  than  care- 
fully attired.  No  woman  can  be  a  courtesan  at  will. 
"Woman  is  a  man's  porridge,"  says   Moliere,  by  the 


378  Cousin    Bette. 

mouth  of  the  ever-wise  Gros-Rene.  This  comparison 
apphes  a  sort  of  culinar3'  science  to  love  ;  pursuing 
the  metaphor,  the  virtuous  and  honorable  woman  be- 
comes the  Homeric  feast  of  flesh  flung  on  the  blaz- 
ing coals  ;  the  courtesan,  a  production  of  Monsieur 
Careme,  a  triumph  of  spices  and  condiments.  Madame 
Hulot  could  not  serve  up  her  white  shoulders  in  a  dish 
of  guipure,  like  Madame  Marneffe,  for  she  kuew  not 
how.  The  noble  woman  might  have  turned  and  looked 
back  a  hundred  times  without  attracting  the  well-trained 
eye  of  a  libertine.  To  be  a  virtuous,  prudent  wife  in  the 
e3'es  of  the  world,  and  make  herself  a  courtesan  to  her 
husband,  is  the  attribute  of  a  woman  of  genius  —  such 
women  are  few  indeed.  Therein  lies  the  secret  of  life- 
long attachments,  inexplicable  to  women  who  are  not 
possessed  of  those  splendid  two-fold  faculties.  Imagine 
Madame  Marneffe  virtuous  and  30U  have  the  Marquise 
de  Pescaire.  These  grand  and  illustrious  women,  these 
beautiful  and  virtuous  Dianes  are  soon  counted. 

The  scene  with  which  this  terrible  and  solemn  stud\' 
of  Parisian  morals  opened  is  now  to  be  reproduced, 
with  the  singular  difference  that  the  prophecy  of  the 
mihtia  captain  was  fulfilled  under  an  absolute  change 
of  parts.  Madame  Hulot  awaited  Crevel  with  those 
intentions  which  three  years  earlier  had  made  him 
smile  with  self-complacency  as  he  sat  erect  in  his 
milord. 

Strange  truth  !  Adeline  was  faithful  to  herself,  to  her 
heart's  love,  in  making  herself  guilty  of  the  grossest  in- 
fidelity —  as  it  will  seem  to  the  e3'es  of  certain  judges. 
*' How  can  I  become  a  Madame  Marnefl^e?"  she  was 
saying  to  herself  as  the  bell  rang.     She  repressed  her 


Cousin  Bette.  379 

tears  ;  fever  fired  her  cheeks  ;  she  pledged  herself  to  be 
indeed  a  courtesan,  —  poor,  noble  creature  ! 

"  What  the  devil  does  that  good  Madame  Hulot  want 
of  me?"  thought  Crevel,  as  he  puffed  up  the  stairway. 
"  I  '11  bet  it 's  about  my  quarrel  with  Celestine  and  Vic- 
torin."  When  he  followed  Louise  into  the  salon  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  looked  at  what  he  called  the  "  naked- 
ness of  the  land,"  ''Poor  soul!  she  is  like  a  fine  pic- 
ture stuck  in  a  garret  by  a  man  who  does  n't  know  what 
painting  is." 

Crevel,  we  may  remark,  had  observed  Comte  Popinot, 
minister  of  Commerce,  buying  pictures  and  statues, 
and  wished  to  be  himself  ranked  among  the  Parisian 
Mecsenases,  whose  love  of  art  is  shown  in  their  search 
for  good  bargains. 

Adeline  smiled  gracioush'  on  Crevel,  and  signed  to 
him  to  take  a  chair. 

"  Here  I  am,  m}^  dear  lady,  at  3'our  orders,"  said  the 
mayor. 

Having  become  a  political  character,  Crevel  now 
dressed  in  black  cloth.  His  face  shone  above  his  dark- 
ling garments  like  the  full  moon  rising  from  a  curtain 
of  black  clouds.  His  shirt,  starred  by  three  large  pearls 
worth  five  hundred  francs  apiece,  gave  a  high  idea  of 
the  thoracic  capacities  behind  it,  —  indeed,  he  called 
himself  the  "future  athlete  of  the  tribune."  His  large 
and  vulgar  hands  wore  the  inevitable  3'ellow  gloves ; 
his  varnished  boots  proclaimed  the  little  coupe  in  which 
he  drove  about.  For  the  last  three  3'ears  ambition  had 
considerably  changed  his  favorite  posture.  Like  tlie 
great  painters,  he  attained  his  "second  manner."  In 
society,  when  he  went  to  the  houses  of  such  people  as 


380  Cousin   Bette, 

the  Prince  de  Wissembonrg  and  Comte  Popinot  he  held 
his  hat  in  one  hand  in  a  free  and  easy  manner  which 
Valerie  had  taught  him,  inserting  the  thumb  of  the 
other  into  the  arm-hole  of  his  waistcoat  with  a  jaunty 
air,  mimacins:  all  the  while  with  head  and  eves.  This 
new  pose  was  due  to  his  malicious  mistress,  who.  under 
pretence  of  rejuvenating  her  mayor,  trained  him  to  be 
more  ridiculous  than  ever. 

••  I  besfcred  vou  to  come,  mv  good,  mv  dear  Monsieur 
Crevel.  on  a  matter  of  the  utmost  importance  — "' 

*  •  I  can  guess  it,  madame,"  said  Crevel,  with  a  shrewd 
air.  "  But  what  you  want  is  impossible.  Oh,  I'm  not  a 
barbarous  father.  —  not.  as  Xapoleon  said,  a  solid  block 
of  avarice.  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  lady.  If  my  chil- 
dren were  wasting  their  money  on  themselves  I  would 
•^o  to  their  assistance  :  bat  to  stop  yonr  husband's  leaks 
—  heavens  I  one  might  as  well  attempt  to  fill  the  tub  of 
the  Danaides  !  Fancy  mortgaging  their  house  for  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  to  help  an  incorrigible  father! 
They  haven't  anything  left,  poor  things  I  —  and  they 
did  n"t  oret  anv  fun  out  of  it.  either.  Thev  will  have 
nothing  now  to  live  on  but  what  Victorin  can  earn  by 
his  profession.  It  is  all  very  well  for  him  to  give  him- 
self airs.  He  was  going  to  be  a  minister,  was  he?  — 
the  family  hope  I  A  pretty  fellow  at  the  helm,  faith ! 
Why,  he  has  run  himself  ashore  at  the  start !  If  he 
were  short  of  money  to  help  him  on.  — if  he  went  into 
debt  for  feasting  the  deputies.  I  should  say  to  him, 
•  Here  's  my  purse  :  dip  into  it.'  But  to  pay  for  his 
father  s  vices,  —  those  vices  I  told  you  about,  —  no  I 
His  fathers  misdeeds  have  thrown  him  out  of  a  public 
career.    It  is  I  who  will  be  made  a  minister,  madame." 


Coiisin  Beite.  381 

"  Alas  !  dear  Crevel,  it  was  not  about  our  children  — 
poor  devoted  creatures  !  —  that  I  wished  to  see  3'ou.  If 
your  heart  is  closed  against  Celestine  and  Victorin,  I 
must  lov^e  them  well  enough  to  soften  tlie  pain  they  will 
feel  at  3'our  anger.  You  punish  3'our  eliildren  for  doing 
a  good  deed." 

-'  Yes,  for  a  good  deed  ill-done,  —  a  semi-crime,"  said 
C revel,  vain  of  the  remark. 

'*The  wa}'  to  do  good,  dear  Crevel/'  said  the 
baroness,  "is,  not  to  give  mone}'  from  an  over-full 
purse,  but  to  bear  privations  for  the  sake  of  being 
generous,  to  suffer  in  benefiting  others,  to  expect 
ingratitude.  Charity  wnich  costs  nothing  is  ignored  in 
heaven." 

"  Saints  ma}'  die  in  a  hospital,  madame  ;  thej'  know 
that  for  them  it  is  the  gate  of  heaven.  But  as  for  me, 
I  am  of  the  world.  I  fear  God  ;  but  I  am  still  more 
afraid  of  the  hell  of  poverty.  To  b.e  without  a  penn}' 
is  the  last  degree  of  miser\'  in  our  present  social  state. 
I  belong  to  my  epoch  ;  I  worship  money." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Adeline,  "from  the  world's 
stand-point." 

She  was  a  hundred  leagues  from  the  subject  in  her 
mind,  and  she  felt  like  Saint  Lawrence  on  his  gridiron 
as  she  thought  of  her  uncle  ;  her  mind  wandered  to  a 
thought  of  him  with  a  pistol  at  his  head.  She  lowered 
her  e3'es  ;  then  she  raised  them,  and  looked  at  Crevel 
with  angelic  sweetness,  but  with  none  of  the  alluring 
vice  so  seductive  in  Valerie.  Three  3-ears  ear  her  she 
would  have  fascinated  Crevel  by  that  glance. 

"I  have  known  3'Ou,"  she  said,  "to  be  more  gene- 
rous ;  you  once   spoke   to  me  of  three  hundred  thou- 


38:2  Comin   Bttfe, 

sand  francs  as  some  great  lord  might  have  spoken  of 
them  —  " 

Crevel  looked  at  Madame  Hulot :  she  seemed  to  him 
a  lilv  just  going  out  of  bloom.  A  vague  idea  entered  his 
mind :  but  he  honored  the  saintly  creature  so  truly  that 
he  drove  back  his  suspicions  into  the  hbertine  quarter 
of  his  mind. 

••  Madame.  I  am  unchanged :  but  an  old  merchant  is 
and  ought  be  a  great  lord,  with  economy,  method,  and 
regularity  :  he  should  carry  his  ideas  of  order  into  even- 
thing.  He  can  open  an  ac-count  with  folly,  allow  it  a 
ci-eilit,  and  spend  certain  profits  on  it,  — but  suffer  it  to 
touch  his  capital !  that  would  be  madness.  My  diildren 
will  eventually  have  their  whole  property,  their  mother's 
and  mine :  but  they  don't  exi>eet  their  father  to  be  a 
monk  or  a  mummy.  My  nature  is  lively  :  I  float  gayly 
down  the  stream.  I  fulfil  all  the  duties  the  law.  my  own 
heart,  and  family  ties  impose  upon  me,  as  scrupulously 
as  I  meet  my  notes  when  due.  If  my  children  behave 
as  well  as  I  do  in  my  own  home  I  shall  be  satisfied : 
and  as  for  the  rest,  provided  my  follies  —  and  I  commit 
follies  —  don't  hurt  any  one.  my  children  can't  reproach 
me.  and  they  '11  get  a  fine  fortune  at  my  death.  Your 
children  can't  sav  the  same  of  their  father,  who  aroes 
heels  over  head  to  the  ruin  of  his  family.'' 

The  further  she  went,  the  farther  she  got  from  her 
purpose.  *•  You  are  very  bitter  against  my  husband, 
dear  Ci*eveL"  she  said ;  **yet  you  would  have  been  his 
best  friend  had  you  found  his  wife  — " 

She  gave  Crevel  a  burning  glance :  but  in  so  doing 
she  made  Dubois's  mistake  when  he  kicked  the  Regent 
three  limes.  —  she  overshot  her  mark,  and  the  libertine 


Cousin   Bette.  383 

ideas  of  the  regenc}'  perfumer  came  back  with  such  a 
rush  that  he  said  to  himself,  ''  Can  she  waut  to  revenge 
herself  on  Hulot?  It  must  be  that,  or  does  she  like  me 
better  as  mayor?  "Women  are  so  queer  I  "  whereupon  he 
struck  the  attitude  of  his  second  manner,  and  gazed  at 
the  baroness  with  a  rakish  air. 

"  It  almost  seems."  she  continued,  "as  if  \'ou  re- 
venged 3'ourself  on  him  for  a  virtue  which  resisted  you, 
—  for  a  woman  whom  you  loved  enough  —  to  —  to  bu}'," 
she  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

'•  For  a  divine  woman  :  "  replied  Crevel,  smiling  sig- 
nificantly at  the  baroness,  whose  eyes  were  moist ;  '•  what 
indignities  you  've  had  to  bear  for  the  last  three  years  ! 
hey,  my  dear?" 

•'  Don't  speak  of  my  sufferings,  dear  Crevel,  —  they 
are  beyond  human  endurance.  Ah.  if  you  still  love  me, 
pull  me  from  the  abyss  in  which  I  lie,  —  I  am  in  hell ! 
the  martyrs  whom  they  tortured,  and  drew,  and  quartered 
lay  on  roses  compared  to  me,  — their  bodies  were  lacer- 
ated, but  my  heart  is  torn  apart  by  wild  horses  !  " 

Crevel's  thumb  slipped  out  of  his  waistcoat,  he  laid 
his  hat  on  the  work-table,  lost  his  attitude,  and  smiled ! 
The  smile  was  so  silly  that  the  baroness  mistook  its 
meaning  and  thought  it  an  expression  of  kindliness. 

**  You  see  before  you  a  woman,  not  only  in  despair, 
but  in  the  death  agony  of  her  honor — resolved  on  all, 
alJ,  my  friend — to  prevent  crimes."  Then,  fearing  that 
Hortense  might  come  in,  she  went  to  the  door  and 
slipped  the  bolt,  and  with  the  same  impulse,  she  flung 
herself  at  Crevel's  feet  and  kissed  his  hands.  ''  Be  my 
helper!"  she  cried.  She  believed  there  were  generous 
fibres  in  the  man's  commercial  heart,  and  a  sudden  hope 


384  Cousin  Bette. 

flashed  before  her  of  obtaining  the  mone}'  without  her 
own  dishonor.  "  Bu^^  a  soul — 3'ou  who  once  sought 
to  bu}^  a  virtue,"  she  cried,  with  a  delirious  glance. 
""Have  faith  in  my  uprightness  as  a  woman,  in  my 
honor,  the  strength  of  which  is  known  to  3'ou.  Be 
my  friend !  Save  a  family  from  ruin,  shame,  de- 
spair ;  save  it  from  rolling  into  a  slough  whose  mire 
is  made  of  blood !  Oh  !  don't  ask  me  to  tell  3'ou  what 
I  mean,"  she  cried,  as  Crevel  made  a  motion  to  speak. 
"  Above  all,  do  not  say  to  me,  '  I  told  you  how  it  would 
be.'  Hear  me !  obe}'  one  whom  30U  once  said  3'ou 
loved,  —  a  woman  whose  abasement  here  at  3'our  feet 
is  perhaps  the  highest  act  of  her  life ;  ask  her  nothing, 
expect  all  from  her  gratitude  !  ■ —  No,  give  nothing,  but 
lend  —  lend  to  her  3'ou  once  called  Adeline  —  " 

Tears  choked  her  words  and  flowed  in  such  abun- 
dance that  the3^  wet  the  gloves  on  Crevel's  hands  and 
made  her  next  words,  "  I  need  two  hundred  thousand 
francs,"  almost  as  indistinguishable  in  the  flood  of  weep- 
ing as  the  rocks  brought  down  b3'  Alpine  torrents  swol- 
len by  the  melting  snows. 

Such  was  the  inexperience  of  virtue  !  Vice  would  have 
asked  nothing,  it  would  have  forced  an  offer  of  all. 
Such  women  as  Madame  Marnefle  await  the  moment 
when  the3^  have  become  indispensable  before  the3'  show 
themselves  exacting.  Distinguishuig  the  words  "  two 
hundred  thousand  francs,"  Crevel  understood  the  whole 
matter.  He  raised  the  baroness  gallantl3\  saying,  in  an 
insolent  tone,  '^  Come,  come,  be  calm,  m3'  httle  woman," 
—  words  which,  in  her  wild  excitement,  Adelme  did  not 
hear.  The  scene  had  changed  ;  Crevel,  to  use  his  own 
language,  was  master  of  the  field. 


Cousin  Bette.  385 


CHAPTEK   XXIX. 

CONCLUSION    OF    THE    LIFE    AND    OPINIONS    OF    CELESTIN 

CREVEL. 

The  immensit}'  of  the  sum  demanded  had  so  startUng 
an  effect  on  Crevel  that  his  lively  emotion  at  beholdinsj 
a  beautiful  woman  at  his  feet  in  tears  passed  off.  Be- 
sides, no  matter  how  angelic  and  lovely  a  woman  may 
be,  if  she  weeps  her  beauty  disappears.  The  Madame 
Marneffes  pretend  to  weep  occasionalh'  and  allow  a  tear 
or  two  to  glide  down  their  cheeks  ;  but  dissolve  in  tears 
and  redden  their  eyes  and  nose  !  —  no,  they  never  com- 
mit such  a  fault  as  that. 

"  Come,  come,  ui}-  dear,  be  calm  !  "  said  Crevel,  tak- 
ing her  beautiful  hands  in  his  own  and  patting  them. 
"  Wh}'  do  you  ask  me  for  two  hundred  thousand 
francs?  what  do  3'ou  want  of  them?  who  are  they  for?  " 

"  Don 't  ask  me  for  an  explanation,"  she  said  ;  "  give 
them  to  me.  You  will  save  the  lives  of  three  persons 
and  your  children's  honor." 

"And  do  3'Ou  believe,  ni}'  little  woman,"  said  Crevel, 
"  that  there  's  a  man  in  all  Paris,  who,  at  the  request  of 
a  woman  who  is  pretty  nearl}'  crazj',  would  go  hunting, 
hie  et  nunc,  in  a  drawer,  an3'where,  for  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  supposed  to  be  hiding  there  till  she 
happens  to  want  them?  Is  that  3'our  idea  of  life  and 
business,  my  lad}'?  Your  m^'sterious  beggars  must  be 
pretty  far  gone  ;  send  them  the  sacraments,  for  nobody 

25 


386  Coitsm  Bette. 

in  Paris  except  its  serene  Iligbness  the  litink  of  France, 
or  the  ilhistrious  Nucingen.  or  misers  in  love  with  gold 
as  other  men  are  with  women,  can  pull  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  francs  out  of  a  hiding-place  on  demand. 
The  civil  list,  civil  as  it  is,  would  ask  you  to  call  again 
to-morrow.  Everybody  makes  the  most  of  liis  money 
and  turns  it  over  and  over  as  best  he  can.  You  ai-e 
much  mistaken,  my  dear  angel,  if  you  think  it  is 
the  king,  Louis-Philippe,  who  reigns  over  us,  —  he 
himself  knows  better  than  that.  He  knows,  as  we  all 
do,  that  above  the  charter  sits  enthroned  that  sacred, 
venerable,  solid,  gracious,  kindly,  beautiful,  noble, 
youthful,  and  all-powerful  coin,  —  the  five-franc  piece. 
Now,  m}'  adorable  angel,  money  exacts  interest ;  its 
whole  business  is  to  look  out  for  interest.  '  God  of  the 
Jews,  thou  rulest  all,'  says  the  great  Racine.  It  is  the 
everlasting:  alleo'orv  of  the  o'olden  calf.  Men  were  stock- 
jobbers  in  the  days  of  Moses.  It's  Biblical.  The  golden 
calf  was  the  first  ledger.  You  don't  know  everything  in 
the  rue  Plumet,  dear  Adeline,"  he  continued.  "The 
Egyptians  loaned  immense  sums  to  the  Hebrews  and 
they  chased  the  people  of  God,  not  for  themselves,  but 
for  their  capital."  Crevel  looked  at  the  baroness  as 
if  to  say,  '-That's  witty,  isn't  it?"  "You  don't 
take  into  consideration  men's  love  for  their  breeches- 
pocket,"  he  continued.  '-  Excuse  me.  Now  listen  if 
you  can,  and  take  in  mj'  aigunient.  You  want  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs?  no  one  can  give  them  without 
changing  investments.  Therefore,  calculate.  To  get 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  living  money,  that  is 
in  cash,  one  must  sell  out  nearly  seven  hundred  thou- 
sand francs'  worth  of  slock  at  three  per  cent.     Even 


Cousin  Bette.  387 

then  you  can't  get  the  money  for  two  days.  That 's  the 
quickest  possible  time.  Now  before  a  man  can  be  per- 
suaded to  give  up  a  fortune, — for  it  is  a  fortune  to 
most  people,  two  hundred  thousand  francs, — he  ought 
to  be  told  where  it  is  going,  and  for  what  reason." 

"  Dear  Crevel,  it  concerns  the  life  of  two  men,  one  of 
wliom  will  die  of  grief  and  the  other  will  kill  himself. 
And  also,  it  concerns  me. — I  am  going  mad,  —  am  I 
not  already  so  ? " 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  knee  ; 
"  old  Crevel  has  his  price,  now  that  you  have  deigned  to 
think  of  him,  my  angel." 

••  You  once  offered  me  a  fortune,"  she  said,  blushing 
and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Ah,  my  little  woman,  but  that  was  three  years 
ago,"  said  Crevel.  "You  are  more  beautiful  now  than 
I  have  ever  seen  you."  he  added,  pressing  her  arm  to 
his  heart.  "And  so  you've  kept  me  in  mind,  dear 
creature?  I  wish  you  had  never  played  the  prude,  for 
that  three  hundred  thousand  francs  you  refused  so 
proudly  went  into  the  pocket  of  another  woman.  I 
loved  3'ou  then  and  I  still  love  you  :  but  let  us  look  back 
to  three  years  ago.  When  I  said  to  you,  '  I  shall  have 
you,'  what  was  my  object?  Vengeance  on  your  scoun- 
drel of  a  husband.  Since  then,  nn*  dear,  he  has  had  a 
treasure  of  a  woman  for  his  mistress,  a  jewel,  a  pearl,  a 
sly-boots,  who  was  twenty-three  years  old  then,  for  she 
is  twenty-six  now.  I  felt  it  was  better  fun,  more  the 
thing,  more  Richelieu,  more  Louis  XY.,  more  Corsican, 
to  deprive  him  of  that  charming  creature,  —  who,  by  the 
b}^,  never  even  liked  him,  and  has  been  for  three  years 
desperately  in  love  with  your  humble  servant." 


388  OousiJi  Bette. 

So  saying,  Crevel,  releasing  Madame  Hulot's  hands, 
recovered  position.  He  stuck  his  two  thumbs  in  the  arm- 
holes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  flapped  his  torso  with  both 
elbows  as  though  the}'  were  wings,  confident  that  he  was 
making  himself  both  desirable  and  delightful.  He  seemed 
to  say,  "  Behold  the  man  you  formerly  discarded." 

"  So,  my  dear  child,  I  am  avenged  and  your  husband 
knows  it.  I  haA^e  categorically  proved  to  him  that  he 
has  been  fooled,  —  what  I  call  jockeyed.  Madame 
Marneffe  is  my  mistress,  and  when  the  Sieur  Marneffe 
dies  she  will  be  m}^  wife." 

Madame  Hulot  looked  fixedly  at  Crevel,  though  her 
ej'es  seemed  dazed. 

"  Does  Hector  know  that?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  and  he  went  back  to  her,  and  I  allowed  it,"  an- 
swered Crevel,  "because  Marneflfe  insisted  on  being 
promoted  to  the  head  of  his  department.  But  she  sv>'ore 
to  me  that  our  baron  should  be  got  rid  of  before  long  in 
a  w^ay  to  prevent  his  ever  reappearing.  And  my  little 
duchess  (for  she  is  a  duchess,  that  w^oman,  honor  bright) 
has  kept  her  word.  She  now,  to  use  her  own  witty  lan- 
guage, returns  your  Hector  virtuous  in  perpetuity.  The 
lesson  has  done  him  good,  severe  as  it  is  ;  he  won't  run 
after  actresses  or  well-bred  women  an}-  more.  I  call 
him  radically  cured  ;  he  has  been  rinsed  out  like  a  tea- 
pot. If  you  had  listened  to  old  Crevel  instead  of  mor- 
tifying him  and  turning  him  out  of  your  house,  3'ou 
might  have  had  four  hundred  thousand  francs  ;  for  my 
revenge  has  cost  me  full}'  that.  But  I  expect  to  get 
back  the  money  wlien  Marneffe  dies.  That 's  the  secret 
of  m}'  extravagance.  I  've  solved  the  problem  of  how 
to  be  a  great  lord  cheaply." 


Cousin  Bette.  389 

"  And  3011  mean  to  give  such  a  mother-in-law  to  your 
daughter?"  cried  Madame  Hulot. 

"You  don't  know,  Valerie,  madame,"  said  Crevel, 
gravely,  striking  the  attitude  of  his  first  manner.  "  She 
is  well-born,  well-bred,  and  a  lady  who  is  held  in  the 
highest  social  estimation.  Only  yesterday  the  vicar  of 
our  parish  dined  with  her.  We  have  just  given  —  for 
she  is  very  pious  —  a  superb  monstrance  to  the  church. 
Oh !  she 's  clever,  witt}',  delightfull}'  educated,  in  fact, 
she  has  everything  in  her  favor.  As  for  me,  dear  Ade- 
line, I  owe  all  I  am  to  that  charming  woman ;  she  has 
quickened  my  mind  and  refined,  as  you  must  have  ob- 
served, my  language ;  she  checks  my  little  jokes  and 
puts  words  and  ideas  into  my  head.  I  don't  say  im- 
proper things  an}'  longer.  There  is  a  great  change  in 
me,  as  you  must  have  seen.  She  has  also  roused  my 
ambition.  I  intend  to  be  a  deputy  and  I  sha'n't  make  a 
mess  of  it  either ;  I  shall  consult  my  Egeria  in  every- 
thing. Great  political  characters  —  Numa  Pompilius 
and  our  present  illustrious  prime  minister — have  all 
had  their  Sibyls.  Valerie  receives  dozens  of  deputies  ; 
she  is  getting  to  be  influential,  and  now  that  I  am  going 
to  give  her  an  elegant  mansion  and  put  her  in  a  car- 
riage, she  will  become  one  of  the  occult  queens  of  Paris. 
Ah !  a  beautiful  woman  is  a  splendid  engine.  Many  a 
time  I  Ve  thanked  you  for  dismissing  me." 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  one  doubt  the  power  of  God," 
said  Adeline,  whose  indignation  dried  her  tears.  "  But 
no !  —  divine  justice  must  hover  above  that  woman's 
head." 

"  Yon  are  ignorant  of  the  world,  my  good  lady,"  said 
Crevel,  deeply  afi'ronted.     '•  The  world  loves  success! 


390  Cousin  Bette. 

What  does  it  care  for  your  sublime  virtue  —  whose  price 
is  two  hundred  thousand  francs  !  " 

The  words  increased  Madame  Hulot's  nervous  trem- 
bling. She  saw  that  the  ex-perfumer  was  determined 
to  revenge  himself  upon  her  as  he  had  upon  her  husband  ; 
disgust  rose  in  her  throat  like  nausea,  so  that  she  could 
not  speak. 

"  Money  —  always  money  !  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  am  greatly  touched,"  said  Crevel,  reminded  by 
that  word  of  the  woman's  humiUation,  "  to  see  you 
weeping  at  my  feet.  Perhaps  you  won't  believe  me,  but 
if  I  had  the  money  here  in  my  pocket,  it  should  be 
3'ours.     Come,  you  want  that  sum  —  " 

Hearing  these  words,  big  with  two  hundred  thousand 
francs,  Adehne  forgot  the  man's  insults  and  fell  into 
the  trap  of  imaginary  success,  which  Crevel  laid  for  her 
intending  to  worm  out  her  secret  and  laugh  over  it  with 
Valerie. 

''  Ah,  I  will  do  anything  !  "  cried  the  unhappy  woman. 
"  Monsieur,  I  will  sell  myself;  I  will  become,  if  I  must, 
another  Valerie  —  " 

"Difficult  for  you!"  said  Crevel.  "Valerie  is  a 
triumph  of  her  species.  M}^  little  woman,  a  virtue  of 
twentj'-five  3^ears'  standing  is  never  attractive  —  and 
yours  seems  to  have  grown  rather  mildewed.  But  I  '11 
prove  that  I  still  love  you  ;  you  shall  have  your  two 
hundred  thousand  francs." 

Adeline  seized  Crevel's  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her 
heart,  unable  to  articulate  a  word,  while  tears  of  joy 
moistened  her  ej'elashes. 

"  Wait,  wait,  there  are  certain  formalities.  As  for 
me,  I'm  a  man  of  the  world,  a  good  fellow,  and  with- 


Cousin  Bette.  391 

out  prejudices  ;  I  shall  explain  things  plumply.  You 
saj^  3'ou  wish  to  do  as  Valerie  does,  —  very  good.  But 
that's  not  all  that's  necessary  ;  we  must  find  some  one, 
some  Hulot,  some  capitalist,  who  would  be  as  glad  as 
I  would  have  been  three  3'ears  ago  to  give  three  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  for  the  love  of  a  woman  as  well- 
bred  as  —  " 

"  Silence,  Monsieur  Crevel  I  "  said  Madame  Hulot,  no 
longer  disguising  her  feelings,  and  letting  her  shame 
overspread  her  face.  "  My  punishment  is  greater  than 
my  sin.  M3'  conscience,  repressed  b^'  the  iron  hand 
of  necessity-,  now  cries  out  to  me  that  such  sacrifices 
are  impossible.  But  my  pride  has  gone ;  I  cannot  be 
indignant  as  I  once  was  —  I  have  lost  the  right  —  I 
have  offered  mj'self  to  you  —  I  am  a  prostitute.  Yes, 
I  have  soiled  my  soul,  hitherto  so  pure,  with  a  base 
purpose  and  —  I  am  without  excuse,  I  know  it  I — I 
deserve  the  insults  you  put  upon  me !  God's  will  be 
done  !  If  he  wills  the  death  of  two  beings  fit  to  enter 
his  presence,  let  them  die ;  I  will  mourn  them,  I  will 
pra^'  for  them  !  If  he  wills  the  degradation  of  our  fam- 
ily, let  us  bow  before  the  avenging  sword  and  kiss  it, 
for  we  are  Christians.  I  know  how  to  expiate  this 
momentar}'  shame  which  will  torture  me  through  all  the 
coming  3'ears.  It  is  no  longer  Madame  Hulot  who 
speaks  to  3'ou,  it  is  the  poor,  the  humble  sinner,  the 
Christian  woman  whose  heart  from  henceforth  holds  one 
feeling  onh',  —  repentance  ;  the  last  of  women  and  the 
first  of  penitents  through  the  magnitude  of  her  evil  deed. 
You  are  the  means  of  m3'  return  to  reason  ;  through  you 
the  voice  of  God  has  spoken  within  me  ;  I  thank  you  —  " 

She  trembled  with  a  nervous  movement  which,  from 


392  Coumi  Bette. 

that  moment,  never  left  her.  Her  gentle  voice  con- 
trasted with  the  feverish  tones  in  which  she  had  hitherto 
spoken  ;  the  blood  forsook  her  cheeks  ;  she  grew  pallid 
and  her  eyes  were  ({yj. 

"  I  pla3'ed  my  part  ill,"  she  said,  looking  at  Crevel 
as  the  mart\'rs  may  have  looked  at  the  proconsul. 
"True  love,  the  sacred  and  devoted  love  of  a  woman, 
has  other  pleasures  than  those  that  are  sold  in  the  mar- 
ket of  prostitution.  But  wh}'  do  I  say  these  things?" 
she  exclaimed,  checking  herself,  making,  as  she  did  so, 
one  step  onward  in  the  path  of  perfection,  —  "  the}'' 
sound  like  sarcasm,  and  God  knows  I  do  not  mean  that ; 
forgive  me  if  the}^  seem  so  —  perhaps  it  is  myself  thej^ 
wound,  not  others." 

The  majesty  of  virtue,  its  celestial  light,  had  swept 
awa}'  the  fleeting  impurit}^  of  the  woman  who,  resplen- 
dent in  the  sacred  beaut^^  that  belonged  to  her,  seemed, 
even  in  Crevel's  eyes,  ennobled.  .  At  this  moment  she 
was  like  those  figures  of  Religion  leaning  on  a  cross 
which  the  old  Venetians  loved  to  paint ;  she  exhibited 
to  the  eye  tlie  grandeur  of  her  sorrows,  and  of  the  Cath- 
olic Church,  to  which  she  flew  for  refuge  like  a  wounded 
dove.     Crevel  was  awed  and  overcome. 

"  Madame,  I  am  yours  without  conditions,"  he  said, 
yielding  to  an  impulse  of  generosity.  ' '  I  will  look  into 
the  matter,  and — what  is  it  you  want  ?  —  the  impossible  ? 
Well,  you  shall  have  it.  I  will  deposit  my  securities  at 
the  bank,  and  in  two  hours  I  will  bring  you  the  mone}'." 

"  My  God!  a  miracle!"  cried  the  poor  woman,  fall- 
ing on  her  knees. 

She  said  a  prayer  with  such  fervor  that  the  tears  were 
in  Crevel's  e^-es  as  she  rose  from  her  knees. 


Cousin  Bette.  393 

"  Be  my  friend,"  she  said  to  him.  "  You  have  a  soul 
above  3'our  conduct  or  your  words.  God  gave  3-ou  that 
soul.  Your  ideas  and  your  passions  are  only  of  this 
world.  Oh,  I  will  love  you ! "  she  cried,  with  an  an- 
gelic ardor  that  contrasted  strangely  with  her  paltry 
little  efforts  at  coquetr}-. 

"  Don  't  tremble  so,"  said  Crevel. 

' '  Do  I  tremble  ?  "  she  said,  not  yet  aware  of  the  in- 
firmit}'  that  had  come  upon  her  so  suddenl}'. 

"  Wh}',  yes  !  see  !  "  he  exclaimed,  taking  her  arm  and 
showing  her  how  it  twitched.  "  Madame,"  he  said,  re- 
spectfull}',  "  be  calm,  I  entreat  you  ;  I  will  go  straight 
to  the  bank  —  " 

"  And  return  quickl}'.  Remember,  dear  friend,"  she 
added,  betraying  her  secret,  "  I  must  prevent  my  uncle 
Fischer's  suicide  ;  he  is  compromised  through  my  hus- 
band. There,  I  have  told  3'ou  all.  See  what  trust  I 
place  in  3'ou.  Besides,  if  we  are  not  in  time,  —  I  know 
the  marshal ;  he  is  the  soul  of  honor ;  he  would  die  of 
the  disgrace." 

"  I  go,"  said  Crevel,  kissing  her  hand.  "  But  what 
has  that  poor  Hulot  done  ?  " 

"  He  has  robbed  the  State  I " 

"  Good  God  !  I  will  hurry.  Madame,  I  understand 
you  ;  I  respect  you." 

Crevel  bent  his  knee  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress ; 
then  he  left  the  room,  saying,  "  Expect  me  soon." 

Unhappih%  between  the  rue  Plumet  and  his  own 
house,  where  he  was  to  go  for  his  securities,  Crevel 
passed  through  the  rue  Vanneau,  and  he  could  not  re- 
sist the  desire  to  see  his  little  duchess.  His  face  was 
still  troubled  as  he  entered  the  room  where  Valerie's 


894  Cousin  Bette. 

maid  was  dressing  her  hair.  The  siren  examined  Cre- 
vel  in  the  glass,  and  was  immediately,  like  all  women 
of  her  kind,  displeased  to  see  that  he  was  under  some 
strong  emotion  of  which  she  was  not  the  cause. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  hero?"  she  said.  "  Is  that 
the  way  to  visit  your  little  duchess.  Before  long  you 
won't  think  me  a  duchess  at  all,  monsieur." 

Crevel  answered  by  a  gloomy  smile,  and  looked  at 
Reine. 

"  Reine,  my  dear,  that  will  do  for  to-day.  1 11  finish 
my  hair  myself.    Bring  me  a  morning-gown." 

Reine,  whose  face  was  pitted  with  small-pox  like  a 
colander,  and  who  seemed  to  have  been  born  expressly 
to  be  Valerie's  maid,  smiled  at  her  mistress  and  brought 
the  garment.  Valerie  took  off  her  peignoir  and  slipped 
into  the  loose  gown  like  an  adder  coiling  into  a  tuft  of 
grass. 

"Madame  is  not  at  home  to  any  one?" 

"  What  a  question  ! "  said  Valerie.  "  Now,  my  old  man, 
what  is  it?    Have  the  Left  Bank  shares  gone  down? " 

"No." 

"Has  some  one  outbid  3'ou  on  the  house?" 

"No." 

"  You  think  you  are  not  the  father  of  our  little 
Crevel?" 

"  Nonsense." 

"  Then  I  can't  guess  what  it  is.  If  I  have  got  to 
pull  a  friend's  troubles  out  of  him,  just  as  you  pull 
corks  out  of  champagne  bottles,  I  give  up.  Go  away  ; 
you  annoy  me."  <  •^•.^-^•.    .A^re*  . 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing,  —  only  I  must  get  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  within  an  hour," 


Cousin  Bette.  395 

"  You  can  get  them  easil}'.  I  have  n't  used  the  fifty 
thousand  we  got  through  the  Hulot  indictment,  and  I 
can  easily  borrow  fifty  thousand  more  from  Henri." 

"  Henri !  alwa3's  Henri !  "  growled  Crevel. 

"  Do  3'ou  think,  m}'  budding  Machiavelli,  that  I  shall 
dismiss  Henri  ?  Does  France  disband  her  navy  ?  Henri ! 
he  is  a  dagger  in  a  sheath  hanging  on  a  nail.  That  fel- 
low," she  cried,  "^  helps  me  to  find  out  if  3'ou  love  me, 
—  and  3'ou  don't  love  me  this  morning." 

"Not  love  you,  Valerie!"  exclaimed  Crevel.  "I 
love  3'OU  better  than  a  million !  " 

"  That  is  not  enough,"  she  said,  springing  on  his 
knee,  and  twining  both  arms  around  his  neck;  "I 
must  be  loved  like  ten  millions,  —  like  all  the  gold  on 
earth,  and  more  too.  Henri  could  n't  be  with  me  five 
minutes  without  telling  all  that  was  in  his  heart.  Come, 
what 's  the  matter,  my  old  darhng  ?  Unpack  your 
troubles.  Tell  all,  and  quickly  too,  to  3-our  little  pet." 
And  she  wafted  her  hair  lighth'  across  his  face  as  she 
pinched  his  nose.  •'  How  can  a  man  have  such  a  nose 
as  that,"  she  cried,  '•  and  keep  a  secret  from  his  Va-va- 
[the  nose  went  to  the  right]  le-le-  [to  the  left]  ri-rie 
[the  nose  recovered  position]  ?  " 

"Well,  I  have  just  seen — "  Crevel  stopped  and 
looked  at  Madame  Marneffe.  "Valerie,  m3'  treasure, 
you  promise  me,  on  your  honor,  not  to  repeat  a  word 
of  what  I  tell  you?" 

"  Honor  bright,  ma3'or  !  "  she  said.  "  See  !  I  raise 
m3'  hand  —  and  m3'  foot!"  And  she  pirouetted  in  a 
waA'  to  drive  Crevel  beside  himself  from  his  head  to  his 
heels. 

"  I  have  just  seen  virtue  in  despair." 


396  Cousin   Bette. 

"  Who  is  virtuous?  and  what  is  despair?"  she  cried, 
nodding  her  head  and  crossing  her  arms  a  la  Napoleon. 

"I  am  speaking  of  poor  Madame  Hulot ;  she  wants 
two  hundred  thousand  francs.  If  she  can't  get  them 
the  old  marshal  and  her  uncle  Fischer  will  blow  their 
brains  out ;  and  as  3'ou  are  partly  the  cause  of  it,  my 
little  duchess,  I  am  going  to  repair  damages.  She  is  a 
good  women,  a  saint,  —  I  know  her,  she  '11  pay  me  back." 

At  the  name  of  Hulot  and  the  mention  of  the  money, 
Valerie's  eyes  emitted  a  look  through  their  long  lashes 
like  the  flash  of  a  cannon  through  its  smoke. 

"  What  has  the  old  woman  done  to  make  you  pity 
her  ?     Has  she  shown  you  her  —  her  —  religion  ?  " 

*•'  Don't  make  fun  of  her,  dearest,  she  is  a  noble,  pious, 
saintly  woman,  worthy  of  all  respect." 

"And  I  am  not!"  said  Valerie,  with  a  dangerous 
look. 

"  I  did  n't  say  that,"  answered  Crevel,  comprehending 
how  the  praise  of  virtue  must  stab  Madame  Marnefle. 

"I'm  pious  too,"  said  Valerie,  moving  away  from 
Crevel  and  sitting  down  in  an  armchair;  "  but  I  don't 
make  a  trade  of  my  religion ;  I  hide  in  a  corner  when  I 
go  to  church." 

She  was  silent  and  paid  no  further  attention  to  Crevel. 
Made  excessively  uneas}^  that  worthy  planted  himself 
in  front  of  her  chair,  and  beheld  her  lost  in  the  painful 
thoughts  he  had  so  foolishly  evoked. 

"  Valerie,  m^^  little  angel !  " 

No  answer.  A  problematical  tear  was  furtivel}^  wiped 
away. 

"  One  word,  my  pet." 

"Monsieur!" 


Cousin  Bette.  397 

"  What  arc  you  tbinking  of  ?" 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Crevel,  I  am  thinking  of  the  da}-  of 
m}'  first  communion.  I  was  beautiful !  I  was  pure  !  I 
was  innocent,  immaculate  !  Ah  !  if  an}^  one  had  gone  to 
my  mother  then  and  said,  '  Your  daughter  will  be  a 
profligate,  she  will  deceive  her  husband,  she  will  sell 
herself  to  Crevel  to  betraj-  Hulot,  two  wicked  old  men, 
—  horrors !  she  would  have  died  before  the  end  of  the 
speech,  —  she  loved  me  so." 

"Becalm." 

"  You  don't  know  how  one  must  love  a  man  before  we 
can  silence  the  remorse  that  wrings  the  heart  of  an 
adulteress.  I  am  sorr}'  Reine  is  not  here  ;  she  could 
tell  you  that  she  found  me  this  morning  praying  to  God 
with  tears  in  m}^  e3'es.  I  never  mock  at  religion,  Mon- 
sieur Crevel ;  did  3^ou  ever  hear  me  sa}^  one  disrespectful 
word  on  that  subject  ?  " 

Crevel  made  a  gesture  of  approbation. 

"  I  won't  allow  them  to  be  said  before  me.  I  scoff  at 
much,  —  at  kings,  judges,  marriage,  love,  3'oung  girls, 
old  men  ;  but  religion,  the  church,  God,  never  !  I  stop 
there.  I  know  I  do  evil ;  I  know  I  am  risking  my  sal- 
vation for  3'ou,  and  yet  you  doubt  my  love  — " 

Crevel  clasped  his  hands. 

"Ah,  you  need  to  look  into  my  heart  and  measure 
the  strength  of  m}'  convictions  before  3'ou  can  realize 
what  I  have  sacrificed  for  3'ou.  I  feel  within  me  the 
soul  of  the  Magdalen  ;  see  how  I  surround  myself  with 
priests,  what  gifts  I  make  to  the  altar !  M3'  mother 
brought  me  up  in  the  Catholic  faith  —  I  know  God.  It 
is  to  us  sinners  that  he  speaks  in  terrifying  tones." 

Valerie   wiped  awa3'  two  tears   which   were   rolling 


398  Cousin  Bette, 

down  her  cheeks.  Crevel  was  clisma3ed  ;  Madame  Mar- 
neffe  rose,  wildly  excited. 

"  My  treasure,  be  calm.     You  frighten  me." 

She  fell  on  her  knees. 

"My  God!"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands,  "lam 
not  a  bad  woman.  Deign  to  seek  thy  lost  lamb,  afflict 
her,  beat  her  with  many  stripes,  take  her  from  the  paths 
of  wickedness  and  adultery,  —  gladly  will  she  hide  in 
th}"  bosom,  happy  in  returning  to  the  fold." 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  looked  at  Crevel ;  the  man 
trembled  at  her  glazed  eyes. 

"  And  then,  oh,  Crevel !  I  am  frightened  sometimes. 
God's  justice  falls  in  this  world  as  well  as  in  that  to 
come.  What  can  I  liope  from  God  ?  Vengeance  is  his 
upon  the  guilt}",  and  who  knows  when  and  where  it  ma}" 
fall?  All  misfortunes  which  fools  are  unable  to  explain 
are  expiations.  That  is  what  my  mother  told  me  on  her 
dying  bed,  speaking  of  old  age.  Oh  !  if  I  lost  you,"  she 
cried,  seizing  Crevel  and  clasping  him  with  savage  en- 
erg}',  "  what  would  become  of  me?     T  should  die." 

Madame  Marneffe  released  Crevel  and  once  more 
knelt  before  her  chair,  joined  her  hands,  and,  in  that 
ravishing  attitude,  she  said  with  incredible  unction  the 
following  prayer :  — 

"  And  you,  Saint  Valerie,  my  protectress,  why  do 
you  not  oftener  visit  the  pillow  of  her  who  was  sacredly 
confided  to  your  care  ?  Oh,  come  to-night  as  you  have 
come  this  morning !  Inspire  me  with  holy  thoughts  ; 
help  me  to  abandon  evil  ways,  —  to  renounce,  like  Mag- 
dalen, deceitful  joys,  the  pomps  of  life,  and — him  — 
I  love." 

"  My  darling  !  "  cried  Crevel. 


Cousin  Bette.  399 

"No  longer  3'oiir  darling,"  she  said,  turning  away 
with  the  pride  of  virtue,  her  ej'es  moist  with  tears,  dig' 
nified,  cold,  almost  indifferent.  "  Leave  me,"  she  said  ; 
"I  know  my  dut^-,  —  I  must  belong  onl}^  to  m}' hus- 
band. He  is  d^ing,  and  3'et  how  do  I  treat  him  ?  I 
have  deceived  him  at  the  verj-  verge  of  his  grave.  He 
thinks  your  son  is  his.  I  will  tell  him  the  truth  ;  I  will 
begin  by  seeking  his  pardon  before  I  ask  that  of  God. 
Monsieur  Crevel,  we  must  part.  Farewell,"  she  said, 
standing  erect  and  offering  him  an  icy  hand  ;  "  farewell, 
m}'  friend,  ma}'  we  meet  in  a  better  world.  You  owe 
me  pleasures,  —  criminal  alas  !  — but  now  I  need  —  3'es 
I  must  have  —  your  esteem." 

Crevel  melted  into  tears. 

"Oh!  you  old  ninn}-,"  she  cried,  with  an  infernal 
burst  of  laughter,  "  I  am  showing  you  how  pious  women 
go  to  work  to  get  two  hundred  thousand  francs  out  of 
you.  And  3'ou,  who  talk  about  Richelieu,  the  original 
of  Lovelace,  3'ou  let  3'ourself  be  taken  in  b}'  such  chaff 
as  that !  I  could  have  2:ot  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
out  of  you  then  if  I  had  kept  on,  you  old  fool.  Take 
care  of  your  monej*  in  future.  If  j'ou  have  more  than 
you  want,  it  belongs  to  me.  If  3'ou  give  two  sous  to 
that  respectable  old  woman  who  pla\'s  the  pious  because 
she  is  fiftj'-seven  years  old,  I  '11  never  see  you  again,  and 
you  can  take  her  in  place  of  me.  I  know  yow  will 
come  back  to  me  the  next  day  sore  all  over  from  her 
angular  charms." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Crevel,  "that  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  is  a  good  deal  of  money." 

"Those  pious  women  have  good  appetites.  They  sell 
their  sermons  for  more  than  we  can  get  for  the  onlv 


400  Cousin   Bette. 

sure  thing  on  earth,  and  that  is  pleasure.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  old  man,  you  who  are  not 
given  to  giving,  for  you  never  gave  me  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  yet." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Crevel ;  "the  little  house  has 
cost  more  than  that." 

"  So  you  are  worth  four  hundred  thousand,  are  you?" 
she  said,  with  a  reflective  air. 

"No." 

"  Well,  if  you  lend  that  old  horror  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  on  my  house,  it  will  be  a  crime  of  leze- 
Valerie." 

"  But  just  listen  to  me." 

"  If  3'ou  give  that  mone}'  to  some  stupid  philanthropic 
invention  you'll  be  thought  a  man  of  ideas,"  she  said, 
growing  animated,  "and  I  shall  be  the  first  to  advise 
you  to  do  so,  because  you  are  such  an  innocent  you 
could  never  write  political  books  and  make  a  reputation 
—  3'ou  have  n't  style  enough  !  But  3'ou  might  pose  like 
others  in  the  same  case,  who  gild  their  name  with  glory 
b}^  sticking  it  at  the  head  of  some  social,  moral,  national, 
or  universal  affair  —  benevolence  is  out  of  the  question, 
it  is  poor  stj'le  just  now  ;  liberated  convicts  (about  whom 
they  made  more  fuss  than  over  the  honest  poor  devils) 
have  had  their  day.  I  would  like  to  see  3'ou  employ 
that  two  hundred  thousand  francs  on  something  more 
important,  something  really  useful.  If  they  were  to  call 
you  a  second  Montyon  should  n't  I  be  proud !  But  to 
throw  two  hundred  thousand  francs  into  a  basin  of  holy- 
water  and  lend  them  to  a  sanctimonious  old  woman  de- 
serted b}'  her  husband,  for  any  reason,  I  don't  care  what, 
is   an  absolute  stupidit}'  which,  in  this  year  of  grace. 


Cousin  Bette.  401 

could  germinate  onl}'  in  tiie  skall  of  an  ex-perfumer ! 
It  smells  of  the  counter !  You  would  n't  dare  look  at 
3-our  face  in  the  glass  the  next  day.  Go  and  put  3'oui' 
money  in  the  Sinking  Fund,  and  don't  come  here  again 
without  the  receipt  for  it.     Go  —  at  once  —  quick  !  " 

She  pushed  Crevel  b}-  the  shoulders  out  of  the  room, 
noticing  that  his  natural  avarice  had  once  more  blos- 
somed on  his  face.  When  the  outer  door  was  closed, 
she  said  aloud,  "There's  Lisbeth  avenged  and  doubly 
avenged.  What  a  pity  she  has  gone,  we  should  have 
had  such  fun  over  it !  Ha,  ha  !  so  the  old  woman  wants 
to  take  the  bread  out  of  ni}'  mouth !  I  '11  shake  her 
well  for  that !  " 


26 


402  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

A    BRIEF    DUEL    BETWEEN    MaRECHAL    HuLOT,    CoMTE   DE 
FORZHEIM,    AND    HiS     EXCELLENCY    MONSEIGNEUR    LE 

Marechal  Cottin,  Prince  de   Wissembourg,  Due 
d'Orfano,  minister  of  war. 

Marechal  Hulot,  considering  himself  obliged  to  live 
in  a  manner  becoming  to  the  highest  military  dignity, 
occupied  a  fine  house  in  the  rue  du  Mont-Parnasse,  a 
street  which  contains  two  or  three  princely  mansions. 
Though  he  hired  the  whole  house  he  occupied  only  the 
ground-floor.  When  Lisbeth  came  to  live  with  him  she 
proposed  to  sub-let  the  first  floor,  which,  she  said,  would 
pa}^  the  rent  of  the  whole  house  and  the  count  would 
get  his  own  apartment  for  next  to  nothing ;  but  the  old 
soldier  refused.  For  the  last  few  months  man}'  anxious 
thoughts  had  passed  through  his  mind.  He  had  guessed 
his  sister-in-law's  povert}"  and  suspected  the  evils  which 
led  to  it,  without  being  able  to  detect  their  cause.  The 
old  man,  by  nature  serene  and  joyous,  had  of  late  grown 
taciturn  and  anxious  ;  he  believed  that  his  house  might 
some  day  be  a  refuge  for  the  baroness  and  her  daughter, 
and  he  was  keeping  the  first  floor  of  it  for  them.  The 
smallness  of  his  fortune  was  so  well  known  that  the 
minister  of  w\ar,  the  Prince  de  Wissembourg,  had  forced 
his  old  comrade  to  accept  an  indemnity  of  equipment. 
Hulot  employed  the  money  in  furnishing  the  ground- 
floor,  where  all  was  in  keeping  with  his  rank ;  for  he 


Cousin  Bette.  403 

did  not  choose,  he  said,  to  carry  a  niarshal's  baton  afoot. 
The  house  had  belonged,  under  the  empire,  to  a  senator  ; 
the  salons  on  the  ground-floor,  decorated  with  great 
raaenificence  in  white  and  oold  with  bas-reliefs,  were  in 
good  preservation.  The  marshal  added  fine  old  furni- 
ture of  the  same  period.  In  the  coach-house  he  kept  a 
carriage,  with  batons  painted  on  the  panels  in  saltire, 
and  hired  horses  whenever  he  desired  to  drive  in  state 
either  to  the  ministr}-,  or  the  palace,  or  to  an}-  public 
ceremony  or  fete.  For  the  last  thirty  years  an  old 
soldier,  now  sixty  years  old,  had  been  his  valet,  and  the 
man's  sister  was  cook  to  the  establishment ;  this  econo- 
mical mode  of  living  enabled  the  count  to  lay  by  some 
ten  thousand  francs  towards  the  little  fortune  he  meant 
to  leave  Hortense.  The  old  man  went  every  da}'  on 
foot  from  the  rue  du  Mont-Parnasse  to  the  rue  Plumet. 
All  the  old  Invalides  ranged  themselves  in  line  and 
saluted  him  as  he  passed  ;  and  the  marshal  rewarded 
them  with  a  friendly  smile. 

'•  Why  do  you  salute  the  like  of  him?"  said  a  young 
workman,  one  day  to  an  old  captain  of  the  Invalides. 

"I'll  tell  you,  you  3'oung  scamp,"  said  the  old  offi- 
cer. The  youth  struck  an  attitude  of  resignation  to  his 
garrulit3\ 

"  In  1809,"  continued  the  Invalide,  "  we  were  cover- 
ing the  flank  of  the  Grand  Army  under  command  of  the 
Emperor  in  person,  on  the  march  to  Vienna.  "We  came 
to  a  bridge  defended  b}'  a  triple  battery  of  cannon,  three 
redoubts,  as  it  were,  placed  one  above  the  other  on  the 
rocks  and  commanding  the  bridge.  We  were  under  the 
orders  of  Marechal  Massena.  I,  here  present,  was  then 
colonel  of  the  grenadiers  of  tlie  Guard,  and  I  marched 


404  Cousin   Bette. 

with  the  line.  Our  cokimns  were  on  one  side  of  the 
river,  the  batteries  on  the  other.  Three  times  we  at- 
tempted the  bridge,  three  times  the  cohimns  balked. 
'  Send  for  Hulot ! '  cried  Massena ;  '  none  but  he  and 
his  men  can  swallow  that  morsel ! '  We  were  brought 
up.  The  last  general  who  had  tried  and  failed  stopped 
Hulot,  under  fire,  clogging  tlie  wa3",  to  tell  him  how 
to  manage.  '  I  don't  want  advice,  but  the  room  to 
pass,'  said  the  general,  springing  upon  the  bridge  at 
the  head  of  his  column  —  r-r-rah !  and  thirt}^  cannon 
pelted  us  !  —  " 

*'  Thunder  ! '"  cried  the  workman,  "  it  must  have  made 
cripples  of  a  good  manj'  of  you  !  " 

"  If  3'ou  had  heard  him  say  those  words,  tranquill}',  as  I 
did,  my  little  man,  you  'd  salute  him  to  the  ground.  The 
affair  never  made  the  noise  of  the  bridge  at  Areola,  but 
it  wasn't  less  fine.  We  followed  Hulot,  on  the  run,  into 
the  batteries !  —  Honor  to  those  who  sta^'ed  there," 
said  the  veteran,  lifting  his  hat.  "  The  kaiserlicks 
were  stunned  by  the  blow,  and  that 's  wh}-  the  Emperor 
made  the  old  man  you  saw  count ;  he  honored  us  all 
in  our  chief,  and  the  present  government  has  done  well 
to  make  him  marshal  of  France." 

"  Long  live  the  marshal !  "  cried  the  workman. 

'•No  use  shouting,  my  lad;  he  can't  hear  3^ou ; 
those  cannons  deafened  him  !  " 

This  anecdote  will  give  an  idea  of  the  respect  in 
which  the  old  arm}-  held  Marechal  Hulot,  whose  re- 
publican opinions  won,  besides,  the  popular  sj^mpathies 
of  his  neighborhood. 

The  sorrow  which  now  entered  that  pure  and  calm 
and  noble  soul  was  grievous  to  behold.     Madame  Hulot 


Cousin  Bette.  405 

endeavored  to  deceive  bira,  and  hid  the  full  truth  as 
best  she  could  with  her  womanlj'  tact.  During  this 
disastrous  morning  the  marshal,  who,  like  all  old  men, 
slept  little,  had  heard  from  Lisbeth  certain  facts  about 
his  brother.  We  may  well  believe  that  the  old  maid 
w^as  delighted  to  have  him  draw  from  her  a  confi- 
dence she  had  been  longing  to  give  since  her  arrival 
in  his  house  ;  it  strengthened  the  prospects  of  her  own 
marriage. 

''  Your  brother  is  incorrigible  !  "  said  Lisbeth,  shout- 
ing into  the  marshal's  best  ear. 

The  sharp,  clear  voice  of  the  Lorraine  peasant- worn  an 
enabled  her  to  converse  with  the  old  man.  She  strained 
her  lungs,  never  over-strong,  in  the  effort  to  show  her 
future  husband  that  he  would  never  be  deaf  with  her. 

"To  keep  three  mistresses,"  exclaimed  the  marshal, 
' '  while  he  had  an  Adeline  !     Poor  Adeline  !  " 

"  If  3'ou  would  take  my  advice,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  you 
would  use  your  influence  wdth  the  Prince  de  Wissem- 
bourg  to  obtain  some  honorable  situation  for  m}'  cousin 
Adeline.  She  needs  it ;  the  baron's  salarj'  is  mortgaged 
for  three  years." 

"  I  will  go  and  see  him  at  once,"  he  replied.  "  I  will 
find  out  what  he  thinks  of  my  brother,  and  ask  him  to 
use  his  influence  for  m}'  sister.  Where  could  we  find  a 
suitable  emploA'ment  for  her?  " 

"A  number  of  charitable  ladies  have  formed  an  as- 
sociation for  benevolent  works  under  the  auspices  of  the 
archbishop.  They  want  some  visitors,  whom  they  em- 
plo}^  at  suitable  salaries,  to  ascertain  the  real  needs  of 
the  applicants  for  relief.  Such  work  would  just  suit  my 
dear  Adeline  ;  her  heart  would  be  in  it." 


406  Cousin  Bette. 

"Send  for  the  horses!"  said  the  marshal,  "I  will 
dress  and  2:0  —  to  Neuilly,  if  necessary." 

"  How  he  loves  her !  "  thought  Bette.  "  Is  she  to  be 
ever  in  my  wa}'?  " 

Lisbeth  was  already'  domineering  over  the  household, 
—  but  out  of  sight  of  the  marshal.  She  had  taken  to 
herself  a  waiting-woman,  and  displa3'ed  all  the  med- 
dlesomeness of  an  old  maid  in  spj'ing  about  her  and 
demanding  an  account  of  expenditures,  in  the  inter- 
ests, she  said,  of  the  dear  marshal.  She  was  quite  as 
republican  as  he  was  ;  pleasing  him  thus  on  his  demo- 
cratic side,  and  flattering  him  in  other  waj's  with  amaz- 
ing ability.  For  the  last  two  weeks  the  old  man,  who 
now  fared  better  and  was  looked  after  b\'  his  new  house- 
keeper as  a  child  by  its  mother,  had  come  to  regard 
Bette  as  in  part  the  realization  of  his  washes. 

"  M}'  dear  marechal,"  she  said,  accompanying  him  to 
the  portico  wdien  the  carriage  came  to  the  door,  "  do 
pray  pull  up  the  windows,  don't  sit  in  a  draught,  —  for 
my  sake  !  " 

The  Marechal,  a  true  old  bachelor,  who  had  never 
been  petted  in  his  life,  smiled  at  her,  although  his  heart 
was  aching. 

At  the  same  moment  Baron  Hulot  was  also  making 
his  wa}'  to  the  cabinet  of  the  Marechal  Prince  de  Wis- 
sembourg,  who  had  sent  for  him.  Though  there  was 
nothing  extraordinar}'  in  the  fact  that  the  minister 
should  send  for  one  of  his  directors,  Hulot's  con- 
science was  so  uneasy  that  he  fancied  he  saw  some- 
thing cold  and  forbidding  in  the  face  of  Mitouflet,  the 
messenger. 

"Mitouflet,  how  is  the   prince?"   he  said,  closing 


Cousin  Betfe.  407 

his  office  door  and  overtaking  the  clerk,  who  had 
walked  on. 

"  He  must  have  a  crow  to  pick  with  3-011,  Monsieur  Ic 
baron,"  said  Mitouflet,  "  for  his  voice  and  ej'es  and  face 
are  —  tempestuous." 

Hulot  became  livid,  and  was  silent.  He  crossed  the 
antechamber  and  the  salons,  and  reached  the  cabinet 
with  a  beating  heart.  The  Marechal,  now"  sevent}^  3'ears 
of  age,  with  perfecth*  white  hair  and  a  brown,  leather}' 
face,  like  man}-  old  men  of  his  age,  was  distinguished  b}-  a 
noble  brow  of  such  amplitude  that  the  imagination  could 
see  a  whole  battle-field  written  out  upon  it.  Beneath 
this  broad  cupola,  covered  with  snow,  glittered  two  e3'es 
of  Napoleonic  blue,  ordinarity  sad,  now  full  of  bitter 
memories  and  regrets,  and  always  shaded  by  the  pro- 
jecting arch  of  his  ej-ebrows,  which  were  very  promi- 
nent. This  rival  of  Bernadotte  had  hoped  to  ascend 
a  throne.  His  ej'es  flashed  lightning  when  some  noble 
sentiment  filled  his  soul ;  his  voice,  usually  hollow, 
grew  strident  at  such  times.  When  angrv,  the  prince 
fell  back  into  the  habits  of  the  camp,  and  his  lan- 
guage became  that  of  sub-lieutenant  Cottin  ;  nothing 
restrained  him.  On  entering  the  room  Hulot  d'Erv}'  be- 
held the  old  lion  standing  before  the  fireplace,  with  his 
hair  tangled  like  a  mane,  his  e3-ebrows  contracted,  his 
shoulders  resting  on  the  mantle-shelf,  and  his  thoughts 
apparentl}'  absent. 

"At  3'our  orders,  prince,"  said  Hulot,  attempting  an 
eas3'  air. 

The  marshal  looked  fixedh'  at  the  director  without 
saying  a  word  during  the  time  it  took  Hulot  to  come 
from  the  doorway  to  within  a  few  ?eet  of  him.     This 


408  Cousin   Bette. 

leaden  look  was  like  the  eye  of  God.  The  baron  could 
not  endure  it  ;  lie  lowered  his  own  eyes  confusedly. 
"He  knows  all !"  thought  he. 

"Does  3'our  conscience  warn  3'ou?"  demanded  the 
marshal,  in  a  stern  and  hollow  voice. 

"It  warns  me,  prince,  that  I  have  probablj^  done 
wrong  to  order  those  raids  in  Algeria  without  consult- 
ing 3"ou.  At  ni}'  age,  and  with  my  tastes,  I  am  without 
fortune,  after  a  service  of  fort3'-five  ^^ears.  You  know 
the  principles  of  the  four  hundred  Elected  of  France. 
Those  gentlemen  are  envious  of  all  positions  ;  the}'  cut 
down  the  salaries  of  ever^'bod}',  even  the  ministers,  as 
j-ou  know.  Useless  to  ask  them  to  help  an  old  sol- 
dier out  of  his  difficulties.  AYhat  can  you  expect  of 
men  who  pa}-  their  own  civil  service  as  the}'  do ;  who 
give  thirt}'  sous  a  day  to  the  Toulon  laborers,  when 
no  man  can  support  a  famil}-  on  less  than  forty ;  men 
who  never  reflect  on  the  iniquity  of  paying  clerks  six 
hundred  to  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  francs  a 
year  to  do  their  work ;  and  who  covet  our  places  for 
themselves  if  the  salaries  amount  to  fort}'  thousand  ?  — 
fellows,  in  short,  who  refuse  to  the  crown  crown-prop- 
erty, confiscated  to  the  crown  in  1830,  when  it  was 
asked  of  them  for  a  prince  in  distress  !  If  you  had  no 
fortune,  like  my  brother,  prince,  they  would  let  you 
vegetate  on  a  paltry  salary,  without  remembering  that 
you  saved  the  Grand  Army  (and  I  with  you)  in  the 
swamps  of  Poland." 

"You  have  robbed  the  State!"  said  the  marshal. 
"  You  are  in  danger  of  a  criminal  prosecution  !  You 
are  no  better  than  a  cashier  who  steals  from  a  bank ! 
and  you  dare  to  treat  the  matter  with  such  levity  ? " 


Cousin  Bette.  409 

''  But  what  a  difference,  monseigneur !  "  cried  Hulot. 
"  Did  I  put  my  hands  on  any  mone}'  that  was  entrusted 
tome?" 

"  When  a  man  commits  such  infamies,"  said  the 
marshal,  "  he  is  doubly  guilty.  You  have  shamefully 
compromised  the  administration,  which  up  to  this  time 
has  been  the  cleanest  in  Europe  ;  and  3'ou  did  it,  mon- 
sieur, for  two  hundred  thousand  francs  and  a  wanton ! " 
continued  the  marshal,  in  a  terrible  voice.  "  You  are  a 
councillor  of  state  ;  but  the  poor  soldier  who  sells  the 
property  of  his  regiment  is  put  to  death  !  Colonel  Pou- 
tin,  of  the  Second  Lancers,  told  me  a  case  in  point :  One 
of  his  men  at  Saverne  loved  an  Alsatian  woman  who 
wanted  a  shawl ;  she  made  such  a  fuss  that  the  poor 
devil,  on  the  point  of  being  promoted  sergeant-major 
after  twentj'  years'  service,  —  a  man  who  was  an  honor 
to  the  service,  —  sold  some  propert}-  belonging  to  the 
regiment  to  get  the  shawl.  Do  you  know  what  he  did, 
Baron  Hulot?  He  powdered  the  glass  of  his  window 
and  swallowed  it,  and  died  in  eleven  hours  in  the  hos- 
pital. Endeavor,  3'ourself,  to  die  of  an  apoplex}',  if  you 
wish  to  save  3'our  honor  —  " 

Hulot  looked  at  the  old  warrior  with  a  haggard  eye. 
The  marshal,  recognizing  a  coward  in  that  glance, 
flushed  red,  and  his  e3'es  gleamed. 

"Do  not  desert  me!"  stammered  Hulot. 

At  this  moment  Marechal  Hulot,  hearing:  that  his 
brother  and  the  minister  were  alone  together,  thought 
himself  free  to  enter.  AVith  the  directness  of  deaf  per- 
sons, he  went  straight  up  to  the  prince. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  latter,  "I  know  what  you  have 
come  for,  old  friend  ;  but  it  is  useless  I " 


410  Cousin  Bette. 

'' Useless?  "  repeated  Marechal  Hulot,  who  heard  only 
that  one  word. 

"  Yes.  You  have  come  to  speak  about  3'our  brother ; 
but  do  you  know  what  your  brother  is?  " 

"My  brother?  "  asked  the  deaf  man. 

*'He  is  a  villain,  a  damned  scoundrel,  unworthy  of 
you !  " 

The  Marechal's  anger  flashed  from  his  e3'es  in  a  light- 
ning glance  which,  like  that  of  Napoleon,  blasted  the 
brains  and  the  wills  of  those  about  him. 

"You  lie,  Cottin  !  "  replied  the  other  marshal,  turning 
livid.  "  Cast  awa}'  your  rank  as  I  cast  mine  !  —  I  am  at 
3'our  orders." 

The  prince  went  straight  to  his  old  comrade,  looked 
at  him  fixedly,  and  said  in  his  ear  as  he  grasped  his 
hand,  "Are  you  a  man?  " 

"  You  shall  see  that  I  am." 

"Then,  command  yourself!  3'ou  have  to  bear  the 
worst  misfortune  that  could  befall  3'ou." 

The  prince  turned  to  the  table,  took  up  a  written 
report,  and  gave  it  to  the  old  man  saying,  "  Read  that !  " 

Comte  Forzheim  read  the  following  letter,  which  ac- 
companied the  report :  — 

[Confidential.] 

To  His  Excellency  the  President 

of  the  Council: 

Algiers, . 

My  dear  Prince,  —  We  are  saddled  with  an  extremely 
unpleasant  business,  as  j^ou  will  see  from  the  accompanying 
report. 

To  sum  it  up,  —  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy  has  sent  one  of  his 
uncles  to  the  province  of  O for  certain  .swindling  transac- 


Cousin   Bette.  411 

tions  in  the  matter  of  grain  and  forage,  a-nd  has  used  his 
office  to  appoint  a  storekeeper  named  Chardin,  who  plays 
into  their  hands.  This  storekeeper  made  a  confession  to  shift 
the  blame  from  his  own  shoulders,  and  has  ended  by  running 
away.  The  procureur  du  roi,  not  aware  that  any  but  subal- 
terns were  concerned,  has  followed  the  case  up  harshly; 
Johann  Fischer,  your  director's  uncle,  was  arrested  on  a 
criminal  charge  and  committed  suicide  in  prison. 

The  matter  would  have  ended  there  if  Fischer,  evidently 
an  honest  man  deceived  by  his  nephew  and  the  storekeeper, 
had  not  been  so  rash  as  to  write  to  Baron  Hulot.  This  letter 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  pi'ocureur  and  so  amazed  him  that 
he  brought  it  to  me.  It  would  be  a  terrible  blow  to  the  ad- 
ministration to  be  forced  to  arrest  and  convict  a  councillor 
of  state  and  a  director  in  the  Wav  office,  a  man  who  has,  more- 
over, done  good  and  loyal  service  —  for  the  fact  is,  he  saved 
us  all  after  Beresina  by  reorganizing  the  administration  of 
the  army  —  I  therefore  requested  the  procureur  to  send  me 
the  papers;  which  I  herewith  refer  to  you. 

Must  we  let  the  matter  take  its  course  ?  Or,  the  actual 
criminal  being  dead,  shall  we  smother  the  matter  by  con- 
victing the  storekeeper  in  default? 

The  procureur  du  roi  is  willing  that  the  matter  be  left  to 
your  management.  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy  is  domiciled  in 
Paris,  and  the  charge  would  therefore  be  made  legally  in  your 
courts.  We  take  this  rather  equivocal  means  to  rid  ourselves, 
momentarily,  of  the  difficulty. 

One  thing  more,  my  dear  Marechal;  I  must  beg  of  you  to 
act  promptly.  A  great  deal  is  being  said  already  about  this 
wretched  business,  which  will  do  us  still  more  harm  if  the 
guilt  of  the  chief  criminal  (now  known  only  to  the  procureur 
du  roi,  the  juge  d'' instruction,  the  prosecutor-general  and  my- 
self) gets  abroad. 

Here  the  paper  fell  from  the  marshal's  fingers.  He 
looked  at  his  brother  and  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  read 


412  Consul  Bette. 

the  report ;  but  he  searched  for  Johanii  Fischer's  letter 
and,  having  read  it,  gave  it  to  the  baron. 

Prison  at  O — -. 

Nephew,  when  you  read  these  words  I  shall  not  be  living. 
Do  not  be  uneasy ;  no  proofs  can  be  found  against  you.  I 
dead,  and  your  Jesuit  of  a  storekeeper  out  of  the  way,  the 
charges  fall  to  the  ground.  The  thought  of  our  dear  Adeline, 
who  owes  her  happiness  to  you,  makes  death  sweet  to  me. 
You  need  not  send  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs. 
Farewell. 

This  letter  will  reach  you  by  a  man  on  whose  fidelity  I  can 

rely. 

JoHANN  Fischer. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Marechal  Hulot  with  touch- 
ing dignity  to  the  Prince  de  Wissembourg.  • '  How 
much  did  you  take  ? "  he  asked,  turning  with  severity  to 
his  brother. 

"  Two  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  marshal,  addressing  the 
minister,  "  3'ou  shall  have  that  sum  in  less  than  fort}'- 
eight  hours.  It  shall  never  be  said  that  a  man  bearing 
the  name  of  Hulot  has  wronged  the  State  to  the  value 
of  a  penny." 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  said  the  prince  ;  "  I  know  where 
the  money  is,  and  I  shall  recover  it.  —  Write  your  res- 
ignation, and  ask  to  be  retired,"  he  continued,  address- 
ing the  baron  and  flinging  a  sheet  of  foolscap  paper 
towards  the  end  G^he  table  at  which  the  latter  was  sit- 
ting, his  legs  shaking  under  him.  "  It  would  bring  shame 
upon  all  of  us  if  we  should  prosecute  30U ;  I  have  ob- 
tained permission  from  the  Council  of  Ministers  to  act 
as  1  am  now  doing.      Since  you  choose  to  accept  a  life 


Cousin  Bette.  413 

without  honor,  without  my  respect,  a  degraded  life,  j'ou 
shall  have  the  retirement  which  is  j'our  due.  But  —  see 
that  men  forget  3'ou." 

The  minister  rang  the  bell. 

"  Is  the  sub-director  Marneffe  waiting?  '^ 

"Yes,  monseigneur." 

"  Let  him  come  in." 

"You  and  your  wife,"  said  the  prince,  as  Marneffe 
appeared,  "  have  deliberateh'  ruined  Baron  Hulot 
d'Erv}',  here  present." 

"Monsieur  le  prince,  we  are  poor  people;  I  have 
onh'  m}^  salary  to  live  upon :  I  have  two  children  to 
support,  the  youngest  of  whom  has  been  foisted  upon 
me  1)3'  Baron  Hulot." 

"What  a  vile  face!"  remarked  the  prince  to  the 
marshal.  "Enough  of  3'our  Sganarelle  speeches,"  he 
said  to  Marneffe.  "  You  will  pay  back  those  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  or  3'ou  will  go  to  Algeria." 

"  But,  Monsieur  le  prince,  3'Ou  don't  know  m3'  wife  ; 
she  has  squandered  them  all.  Monsieur  le  baron  in- 
vited six  persons  to  dinner  ever3'  da3\  It  cost  fift3' 
thousand  francs  a  3'ear  to  keep  the  house." 

"Go!"  said  the  prince,  in  that  terrible  voice  which 
sounded  the  charge  in  battle  ;  "you  will  receive  notice 
of  3'Our  removal  to  Algiers  in  two  hours.     Go  !  " 

"I  prefer  to  give  in  m3'  resignation,"  said  Marneffe, 
insolentl3^  "It  is  a  little  too  much  to  be  what  I  am 
and  defeated  into  the  bargain  —  I  shall  not  allow  that." 

And  he  left  the  room. 

"  An  impudent  fellow  !  "  said  the  prince. 

Marechal  Hulot,  who  during  this  scene  had  remained 
standing,  erect,  motionless,  and  pale  as  a  lifeless  bod3% 


414  Cousin  Bette. 

silentl}'  watching  his  brother,  now  went  up  to  the  prince 
and  took  his  hand,  repeating:  "In  fort3'-eight  hours 
the  material  harm  shall  be  repaired,  but  —  our  honor! 
Farewell,  Marechal !  the  last  blow  kills.  Yes,  I  shall 
die,"  he  said  in  his  old  friend's  ear. 

"  What  the  devil  did  yoM  come  here  for?"  replied 
the  prince,  deeply-  moved. 

"  I  came  on  behalf  of  his  wife,"  replied  the  count, 
"  she  is  without  means  of  support ;  and  now  —  " 

"  He  will  have  his  pension." 

"It  is  mortgaged." 

"  The  curse  is  on  him !  "  cried  the  prince,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  disgust.  "  Wliat  philter  have  you  swallowed 
to  let  those  women  destroy  you  body  and  mind  ? "  he 
demanded,  turning  to  the  baron.  "  How  could  3'ou, 
3'ou  who  know  the  minute  exactitude  with  which  the 
French  administration  puts  everything  into  written 
words,  consumes  reams  of  paper  to  prove  the  where- 
abouts of  every  farthing,  you  who  were  always  com- 
plaining that  so  many  signatures  had  to  be  given  for 
mere  nothings,  —  to  release  a  soldier,  to  bu}^  curr}'- 
combs, — how  could  you  have  expected  to  hide  3'our 
thefts  for  an}'  length  of  time?  Did  you  forget  the 
newspapers,  and  the  men  who  would  have  liked  to  steal 
in  3'our  place?  And  all  for  women  !  for  women  who  rob 
you  of  your  common  sense,  who  pull  the  wool  over  3'our 
e^'es  —  or  you  are  different!}'  constituted  from  other  men. 
You  ought  to  have  left  the  government  when  you 
felt  yourself  no  longer  a  man,  only  a  temperament ! 
You  have  added  folly  to  crime  and  you  will  end  —  I 
will  not  tell  you  where  — " 

"  Promise  that   you  will  take  care  of  her,    Cottin," 


Cousin   Bette.  415 

said  the  marshal,  not  hearing  what  the  other  said  and 
thinking  only  of  his  sister-in-law. 

'•  Don't  doubt  it  I  "  said  the  minister. 

"I  thank  you —  Farewell!  Come!"  he  said, 
sternly,  to  his  brother. 

The  prince  looked  with  an  eye  that  was  apparently 
calm  at  the  two  brothers,  so  different  in  attitude,  in 
conformation,  and  in  character,  —  the  brave  man  and 
the  coward ;  the  chaste  man  and  the  A'oluptuary  ;  the 
man  of  honor  and  the  peculator,  —  and  he  said  to  him- 
self: "That  coward  does  not  dare  to  die,  but  death 
sits  already  on  the  shoulders  of  my  poor  upright 
Hulot." 

He  threw  himself  into  his  armchair  and  went  back 
to  the  perusal  of  despatches  from  Africa,  with  a  gesture 
that  showed  at  once  the  sang-froid  of  a  great  captain 
and  the  profound  pit}'  the  sight  of  a  battlefield  excites. 
There  is  nothing  more  truly  humane  in  reality  than  sol- 
diers, rough  as  they  seem,  to  whom  the  habit  of  war 
has  given  that  ins  will  so  necessary  in  action. 

On  the  morrow  certain  newspapers  contained,  under 
different  headings,  the  following  articles :  — 

"  M.  le  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervy  has  asked  to  be  retired.  The 
troubles  in  the  commissariat  department  of  the  administration 
in  Algiers  have  influenced  his  determination.  On  learning  of 
the  wrongs  committed  by  two  functionaries  in  whom  he  had 
placed  great  confidence  he  was  seized  with  paralysis  in  the 
cabinet  of  the  minister. 

"  M.  Hulot  d'Ervy,  brother  of  Marechal  Hulot,  has  seen 
forty-five  years'  service.  His  resignation  is  much  regretted 
by  all  who  know  M.  Hulot,  whose  personal  qualities  equal  his 
administrative  talents.    His  devotion  to  the  country,  as  shown 


416  Cousin  Bette. 

by  his  services  in  the  Imperial  Guard  at  Varsovie,  and  the 
marvellous  energy  which  enabled  him  to  organize  the  differ- 
ent services  of  the  army  improvised  by  Napoleon  in  1815, 
can  never  be  forgotten. 

"  Another  of  the  glories  of  the  Napoleonic  era  leaves  the 
scene.  Since  1830  M.  le  Baron  Hulot  has  been  one  of  the 
most  important  members  in  the  Council  of  State  and  the 
War  department." 

"  Algiers.  —  The  affair  in  the  commissariat  department, 
to  which  some  newspapers  have  given  a  ridiculous  promi- 
nence, has  ended  by  the  death  of  the  chief  culprit,  Johann 
Wisch,  who  killed  himself  in  prison.  His  accomplice  es- 
caped; but  judgment  will  be  passed  upon  him  by  default. 

"  Wisch,  formerly  commissary  to  the  Grand  Army,  was  an 
honest  man,  greatly  esteemed.  He  was  unable  to  bear  the 
idea  of  having  been  duped  by  Chardin,  the  storekeeper,  who 
escaped." 

Among  the  local  news  of  Paris  the  following  appeared 
in  various  journals  :  — 

"  M.  le  Marechal  minister  of  War,  hastening  to  put  an 
end  to  abuses  said  to  exist  in  the  administration  of  the  gov- 
ernment in  Algiers,  has  determined  to  create  a  subsistence 
bureau  in  Africa.  It  is  said  that  Monsieur  Marneffe,  at  pres- 
ent sub-director  at  the  ministry  of  War,  will  be  head  of  this 
new  department." 

"  The  appointment  of  a  successor  to  Baron  Hulot  excites 
much  ambition.  This  directorship  is  promised,  they  say,  to 
M.  le  Comte  Martial  de  la  Roche-Hugon,  deputy,  brother-in- 
law  of  M.  le  Comte  de  Rastignac.  M.  Massol,  master  of  peti- 
tions, will  be  appointed  councillor  of  state,  and  M.  Claude 
Vignon  takes  M.  Massol 's  office." 

Of  all  canards^  the  most  dangerous  for  the  oppo- 
sition journals  is  the  official  canard.     However  war^- 


Cousiii  Bette,  417 

journalists  may  be,  they  are  sometimes  tlie  voluntary 
or  involuntary  dupes  of  the  cleverness  of  those  among 
their  number  who  have  passed,  liive  Claude  Vignon,  to 
the  higher  regions  of  governmental  power.  It  ma}' 
be  taken  as  an  axiom  that  a  journal  can  be  put  in  the 
wrong  onl}'  by  a  journalist. 


27 


418  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  FATHER. 

IMarechal  Hulot  drove  his  brother  home,  —  the 
younger  taking  the  front  seat  of  the  carriage,  respect- 
fully leaving  the  otuer  to  his  elder.  The  two  brothers 
did  not  exchange  a  word.  Hector  w^as  annihilated,  and 
the  marshal  wrapped  in  thought,  like  a  man  gathering 
up  his  strength  to  bear  some  crushing  blow.  When  he 
reached  home  he  took  his  brother  silently  and  with  im- 
perative gestures  to  his  private  study.  The  marshal 
had  received  from  Napoleon  the  gift  of  a  pair  of  mag- 
nificent pistols  from  the  manufactory  of  Versailles.  He 
took  out  the  case,  on  which  was  stamped  the  follow- 
ing insci'iption,  "  Given  b}-  the  Emperor  Napoleon  to 
General  Hulot,"  and  showed  it  to  his  brother,  saying, 
''Here  is  your  remedy." 

Lisbeth,  who  saw  what  took  place  from  the  other 
side  of  the  half-open  door,  ran  to  the  carriage  and 
ordered  the  coacliman  to  drive  fast  to  the  rue  Plumet. 
Twenty  minutes  later  she  returned  with  the  baroness, 
having  warned  her  of  the  marshal's  threat. 

Meantime  the  count,  without  looking  at  his  brother, 
rang  for  his  factotum,  the  soldier  who  had  served  him 
for  thirty  years. 

"  Beaupied,"  he  said,  "  fetch  my  notary,  Comte  Stein- 
bock,  my  niece  Hortense,  and  the  broker  of  the  Treas- 


Coimii  Bette.  419 

UYY.  It  is  half-past  ten  o'clock,  and  I  want  all  those 
persons  here  b}'  twelve.  Take  carriages,  —  go  !  "  he 
said,  with  the  terrible  look  on  his  face  which  held  his 
soldiers  quiet  as  he  examined  the  jennets  of  Brittan}'  in 
1799.     [See  "  Xes  Choucms."] 

"  You  shall  be  obej'ed,  Marechal,"  said  Beaupied, 
carrying  the  back  of  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 

Without  noticing  his  brother,  the  old  man  took  a 
key  from  his  desk  and  unlocked  a  casket  made  of  mal- 
achite veneered  on  steel,  a  gift  from  the  Emperor  Alex- 
ander. The  marshal  had  been  sent  by  the  Emperor 
Napoleon  to  the  Russian  emperor  to  return  certain  pri- 
vate propert}'  which  had  been  captured  at  the  battle 
of  Dresden,  in  exchange  for  which  Napoleon  hoped  to 
obtain  Vandamme.  The  Czar  rewarded  General  Hulot 
magnificently  w^ith  this  casket,  and  told  him  that  he 
hoped  some  day  to  return  the  courtes}'  of  the  French 
emperor ;  but  he  kept  Vandamme.  The  imperial  arms 
of  Russia  were  inlaid  in  gold  on  the  cover  of  the  box 
and  the  edges  and  ornaments  w^ere  of  solid  gold.  The 
marshal  examined  the  value  of  its  contents,  and  found 
that  he  w-as  worth  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  At  this  mo- 
ment Madame  Hulot  entered  the  room.  She  looked  at 
Hector,  at  the  case  of  pistols,  and  at  the  marshal  with 
a  frenzied  e^e. 

*'What  complaint  do  3'ou  make  of  your  brother? 
What  has  m^^  husband  done  to  you  ?  "  she  said,  in  so 
piercing  a  voice  that  the  marshal  heard  her. 

"He  has  dishonored  us  all!"  answered  the  old 
soldier,  "  He  has  robbed  the  State  !  He  has  rendered 
my  name  odious  !     He  has  made  me  wish  to  die  !     He 


420  Cousin  Bette. 

has  killed  me  !  I  have  no  strength  left  except  to  make 
restitution.  I  have  been  humiliated  before  the  Conde 
of  the  Revolution,  before  the  man  I  esteem  the  most 
and  to  whom  I  unjustly  gave  the  lie,  the  Prince  de  Wis- 
sembourg.  Is  all  that  nothing?  That  is  the  pubhc 
charge  against  him." 

The  marshal  wiped  away  a  tear. 

"The  wrong  done  to  his  famil}^  is  another  thing,"  he 
resumed.  "  He  deprives  you  of  the  bread  I  was  lading 
up  for  you,  the  fruit  of  thirty  3'ears'  savings,  the  cost  of 
an  old  soldier's  privations  !  I  destined  these  for  you," 
he  said,  showing  her  the  bank  bills.  "  He  has  killed  his 
uncle  Fischer,  that  noble  Alsatian  who  was  unable  to 
bear,  as  he  does,  the  stain  upon  his  peasant  name.  God 
in  his  mercy  had  enabled  him  to  choose  an  angel  among 
women  for  his  wife ;  he  had  the  untold  happiness  of 
marrying  an  Adeline ;  he  has  betrayed  her,  he  has 
steeped  her  in  sorrow,  he  has  deserted  her  for  harlots, 
dancing-women,  actresses,  the  Cadines,  Josephas  and 
Marneffes  I  That  is  the  man  whom  I  made  my  child, 
m}"  pride  !  Go,  unhappy  man,  since  you  accept  the  in- 
famous life  you  have  made  for  yourself, —  depart !  I  —  I 
have  no  strength  to  curse  the  brother  I  have  loved  so 
well ;  I  am  as  weak  toward  him  as  you  are,  Adeline  ; 
but  let  him  never  enter  my  sight  again.  I  forbid  him 
to  look  upon  me  in  my  coffin  or  to  follow  me  to  the 
grave.  Let  him  have  the  decency  of  crime  if  he  has 
none  of  its  remorse." 

The  marshal,  turning  livid,  fell  on  the  sofa  of  his 
little  room,  exhausted  by  the  utterance  of  these  solemn 
words.  Tears,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
rolled  down  his  cheeks. 


Cousin   Bette.  421 

" M}^  poor  uncle  Fischer!"  cried  Lisbeth,  putting  a 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"Brother!"  said  Adeline,  kneeling  before  the  mar- 
shal, "  live  for  me.  Help  me  in  the  work  of  restoring 
Hector  to  a  right  life  and  making  him  redeem  his  wrong- 
doing." 

"  He  !  "  said  the  marshal,  "if  he  lives,  his  crimes  will 
increase.  A  man  who  has  deserted  an  Adeline,  who 
has  quenched  within  his  soul  the  sentiments  of  a  true 
republican  —  love  of  countr}',  of  famih',  of  the  poor 
and  unfortunate  —  sentiments  which  I  strove  to  teacli 
him,  is  a  monster,  a  hog.  Take  him  awa}'  if  3'ou  still 
love  him,  for  I  hear  a  voice  within  telling  me  to  seize 
ni}'  pistols  and  blow  his  brains  out.  If  I  should  kill 
him  I  should  save  you  all ;  I  should  save  him  from 
himself." 

The  old  marshal  rose  with  so  formidable  a  gesture 
that  poor  Adeline,  crying  out  "  Come,  Hector !  "  seized 
her  husband's  arm  and  dragged  him  awa}',  so  broken  in 
strength  and  spirit  that  she  was  obhged  to  take  him  in 
a  carriage  to  the  rue  Plumet,  where  he  took  to  his  bed. 
Half-dead,  he  stayed  there  several  daj's,  refusing  all 
nourishment  and  saj'ing  not  a  word.  Adeline  coaxed 
hin»,  with  tears,  to  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls  of  broth  ; 
she  nursed  him  night  and  da}',  sitting  by  his  pillow,  con- 
scious of  no  feeling  among  the  man}'  that  formerly  had 
filled  her  heart,  but  that  of  deepest  pity. 

At  half-past  twelve  Lisbeth  ushered  the  notary  and 
Steinbock  into  the  study  of  her  dear  marshal,  whom  she 
determined  not  to  leave  alone  for  a  moment,  so  terrified 
was  she  at  the  changes  that  were  taking  place  in  him. 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  the  marshal,  "  I  beg  you 


422  Cousin   Bette. 

to  sign  this  paper  authorizing  my  niece,  3'our  wife,  to 
sell  the  investment  in  the  Funds  of  which  she  owns  the 
capital  and  her  cousin  the  life-interest.  Mademoiselle 
Fischer,  do  yoxx  acquiesce  in  this  sale  b}^  resigning  the 
income  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear  count,"  said  Lisbeth,  unhesitatingly. 

"  Very  good,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  soldier  ;  "  I  hope 
to  live  long  enough  to  make  it  up  to  you.  I  have  never 
doubted  you  ;  you  are  a  true  republican,  a  daughter  of 
the  people." 

He  took  the  hand  of  the  old  maid  and  kissed  it. 

"Monsieur  Hannequin,"  he  resumed,  turning  to  the 
notar}',  "  draw  up  the  necessary  papers  and  let  me  have 
them  two  hours  hence,  — in  time  to  sell  out  the  money  at 
the  Bourse  to-da}'.  M}'  niece,  the  countess,  has  the 
certificates  ;  she  will  be  here,  ready  to  sign  the  papers 
together  with  Mademoiselle,  when  3'ou  bring  them. 
Monsieur  le  comte  will  accompany  you  and  give  3'ou 
his  signature  at  3'our  office." 

At  a  sign  from  Lisbeth  the  artist  bowed  respectfully 
to  the  marshal  and  left  the  room. 

The  next  day,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
Comte  de  Forzheim  asked  an  audience  of  the  Prince 
de  Wissembourg  and  was  at  once  admitted. 

'*  Well,  my  dear  Hulot,"  said  Marechal  Cottin,  hold- 
ing out  a  batch  of  newspapers  to  his  old  comrade.  ' '  You 
see  we  have  saved  appearances  —     Read  these." 

The  marshal  laid  the  papers  on  his  friend's  desk,  and 
held  out  in  turn  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs. 

"  Here  is  what  m^-  brother  took  from  the  State,"  he 
said. 

"  What  madness  !  "  exclaimed  the  minister.     "It  is 


Coushi   Bette.  423 

quite  impossible,"  he  added,  taking  the  ear-trumpet  the 
marshal  offered  him,  "to  make  this  restitution.  "VVe 
should  be  obliged  to- make  public  3'our  brother's  pecula- 
tions, and  we  have  now  done  all  we  can  to  hide  them  —  " 

"  Do  what  you  like  with  the  mone}' ;  but  I  will  not 
permit  the  Hulot  familj'  to  keep  one  penn^-  of  the  public 
funds  —  stolen  by  one  of  us  !  "  said  the  marshal. 

"  I  will  take  the  King's  orders  on  this  subject.  Let 
us  sa}'  no  more  about  it,"  answered  the  minister,  per- 
ceiving how  impossible  it  was  to  overcome  the  old  man's 
obstinac3\ 

"Adieu,  Cottin,"  said  the  marshal,  taking  his  old 
comrade  bj*  the  hand.  "My  soul  is  numb  —  "  Then, 
having  gone  a  few  paces,  he  turned,  looked  at  the 
prince,  saw  his  emotion,  and  opened  his  arms  to  him. 
The  two  friends  clasped  each  other. 

"I  seem  to  bid  adieu  to  the  whole  Grand  Army  in 
your  person,"  said  the  marshal. 

"  Farewell,  m}-  good  and  dear  old  comrade,"  said  the 
minister. 

"  Yes,  farewell,  — I  go  to  the  old  soldiers  whom  we 
have  mourned." 

Claude  Vignon  entered  the  room  at  this  moment. 
The  old  relics  of  the  Napoleonic  legions  bowed  to 
each  other  graveh',  hiding  all  trace  of  emotion. 

"  I  hope,  prince,  that  3'ou  are  satisfied  with  those 
articles?"  said  the  journahst.  "I  have  managed  to 
make  the  opposition  papers  believe  that  the}*  are  pub- 
lishing our  secrets." 

"Unfortunately,  it  is  all  to  no  purpose,"  said  the 
minister,  looking  after  the  marshal  who  was  passing  out 
tlirough  the  salon.     '•  I  have  just  said  a  grievous  fare- 


424  Cousin  Bette: 

well.  Marechal  Hulot  has  but  a  few  days  to  live,  —  I 
knew  it  ^-esterdaj^  That  man  of  divine  honor,  whom 
the  very  bullets  respected  in  spite  of  his  bravery,  re- 
ceived his  death-blow  there,  in  that  chair,  from  my  hand, 
by  a  paper  which  I  gave  him.  Ring  for  my  carriage. 
I  must  go  to  Neuilly,"  he  said,  locking  up  the  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs. 

Three  days  later,  in  spite  of  all  Bette's  care,  Mare- 
chal Hulot  died.  Such  men  are  the  honor  of  the  parties 
with  which  they  side.  In  the  minds  of  Republicans 
the  marshal  was  the  ideal  of  patriotism  ;  their  leaders 
were  at  his  funeral,  which  was  followed  b}'  an  immense 
crowd.  The  arm}^,  the  administration,  the  court,  the 
people  came  to  do  homage  to  that  high  virtue,  that 
unblemished  integrit}",  that  spotless  fame.  It  is  not 
through  desiring  it  that  a  man  is  mourned  b}'  a  people  ! 
These  obsequies  were  the  occasion  for  one  of  those 
graceful  testimonials,  full  of  good  feehng  and  good 
taste,  which  every  now  and  then  recall  the  virtues  and 
the  glor}^  of  the  old  French  nobility.  Behind  the  mar- 
shal's coffin  came  the  old  Marquis  de  Montauran,  brother 
of  the  Montauran  who  at  the  rising  of  the  Chouans  in 
1799  had  been  the  adversary,  and  the  defeated  adver- 
sary, of  Hulot.  The  marquis,  dying  from  a  republican 
bullet,  confided  the  interests  of  his  younger  brother  to 
the  hero  of  the  Republic  [see  "  Zes  Chouans."^-  Hulot 
fulfilled  the  verbal  bequest  of  the  nobleman  so  faithfully 
that  he  succeeded  in  saving  the  property  of  the  younger 
Montauran,  who  had  emigrated.  Thus  the  respect  and 
reverence  of  the  old  French  nobility  were  not  lacking 
to  the  funeral  of  the  soldier  who,  nine  3'ears  earlier,  had 
vanquished  madame. 


Cousin  Bette.  425 

The  marshal's  death,  which  took  place  four  da3's  be- 
fore the  time  for  the  last  publication  of  the  banns  of 
marriage,  was  to  Lisbeth  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  that 
burned  her  whole  harvest  together  with  the  granary. 
The  woman  had,  as  often  happens,  succeeded  onl3^  too 
well.  The  marshal  died  of  the  blows  which  she  and 
Madame  Marneffe  rained  upon  the  famil}'.  The  old 
maid's  hatred,  satiated  bj"  success,  now  redoubled  under 
the  defeat  of  her  hopes.  She  rushed  to  Madame  Mar- 
neffe and  wept  tears  of  rage.  She  was  homeless,  for 
the  marshal's  lease  ended  with  his  life.  Crevel,  to 
console  his  Valerie's  dear  friend,  took  her  savings, 
and  doubled  them,  investing  the  amount  at  five  per 
cent,  giving  her  the  life-interest  and  placing  the  cap- 
ital in  Celestine's  name.  Thanks  to  this  operation, 
Bette  received  an  income  of  about  two  thousand  francs. 
When  the  marshal's  papers  were  examined  a  note  was 
found  addressed  to  his  sister-in-law,  his  niece  Hortense, 
and  his  nephew  Victorin,  requesting  them  to  pay  out  of 
the  propert}"  the}-  inherited  from  him  an  annuity  of 
twelve  hundred  francs  to  the  woman  who  was  to  have 
been  his  wife. 

Adeline,  feeling  that  Hector  hovered  between  life  and 
death,  concealed  his  brother's  death  for  a  few  days. 
But  Lisbeth  came  to  see  him  dressed  in  mourning,  and 
he  learned  the  fatal  truth  eleven  da3'S  after  the  funeral. 
Tlie  dreadful  blow  roused  his  energies.  He  rose  from 
his  bed  and  met  the  famil}'  in  the  salon.  All  were 
silent  on  his  appearance.  In  the  short  space  of  fifteen 
days  he  was  shrunken  to  a  spectre,  and  appeared  to  his 
family  but  a  shadow  of  himself 

''  We  must  decide  on  what  to  do,"  he  said  in  a  hollow 


426  Cousin   Bette. 

voice,  sitting  down  in  an  armchair  and  looking  round 
upon  the  family  gathering,  from  which  onl}'  Crevel  and 
Steinbock  were  missing. 

"We  cannot  stay  here,"  remarked  Hortense  ;  "the 
rent  is  too  high." 

"  As  to  a  house,"  said  Victorin,  after  a  painful  pause 
"  I  offer  my  mother  —  " 

Hearins:  the  words  which  seemed  to  exclude  himself, 
tlie  baron  raised  his  e3'es  from  the  carpet  where  they 
liad  been  fixed  and  gave  his  son  an  agonizing  look. 
The  rights  of  a  father  are  so  sacred,  even  though  he  be 
degraded  and  lost  to  a  sense  of  honor,  that  Victorin 
stopped  short. 

"To  your  mother!"  said  the  baron.  ^' You  are 
riglit,  my  son." 

"The  apartment  above  our  own,"  said  Celestine, 
completing  her  husband's  offer. 

"I  am  in  your  wa}',  m}'  children,"  said  tlie  baron 
with  the  gentleness  of  a  man  who  condemns  himself. 
"  Do  not  be  anxious  about  the  future  ;  3'ou  will  have  no 
further  cause  to  complain  of  3-our  father."  Then  sign- 
ing to  Lisbeth,  who  came  up  to  him,  he  kissed  her  on 
tlie  forehead  and  returned  to  his  own  room.  Adeline, 
keenly  distressed,  followed  him. 

"M\-  brother  was  right,  Adeline,"  he  said,  taking  her 
l\v  the  hand.  "  I  am  un worth}'  of  the  famih'  home.  I 
dare  not  bless  my  poor  children,  whose  conduct  has 
been  noble,  for  the  blessing  of  an  infamous  man,  of  a 
father  who  has  made  himself  a  murderer,  the  scourge 
of  his  family,  might  be  fatal  to  them  ;  but  I  will  bless 
them  from  afar  daily.  As  for  you,  God  alone,  the  All- 
powerful,  can  reward  you  according  to  A'our  merits  —  I 


Ooitsin    Bette.  427 

implore  A'onr  pardon,"  he  said,  kneeling  before  his  wife 
and  bathing  her  hands  witli  his  tears. 

"  Hector!  Hector!  3'onr  sins  are  great,  bnt  the  Di- 
vine mercN'  is  greater ;  3'ou  can  redeem  them  by  stay- 
ing here  in  your  home.  Rise  to  Christian  thonghts, 
dear  friend.  I  am  3'our  wife  and  not  3'onr  judge.  I 
am  3'Our  chattel,  do  with  me  as  it  pleases  3011 ;  take  me 
where  3'on  go ;  I  have  the  power,  I  feel  it,  to  console 
you,  to  make  life  bearable  to  3'ou  by  love,  b3'  tender- 
ness, b}'  respect !  Our  children  are  settled  in  life ; 
the3'  no  longer  need  me.  Let  me  tr3'  to  be  your  cheer- 
fulness, your  amusement.  Let  me  share  the  trials  of 
3'Our  exile,  3'our  povert3' ;  let  me  soften  them.  I  can 
alwa3's  be  good  for  something,  be  it  onl3'  to  save  30U 
the  wao-es  of  a  servant  —  " 

"Do  you  forgive  me,  my  dear,  beloved  Adeline?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  oh,  m3'  friend,  rise  !  " 

"  Your  forgiveness  w'ill  enable  me  to  live,"  he  said, 
rising  from  his  knees.  "I  came  back  to  m3'  room  tliat 
my  children  might  not  see  the  self-abasement  of  their 
father.  How  awful  for  them  to  have  dail3-  before  their 
e3'es  a  father  as  criminal  as  I  am  !  it  casts  down  pater- 
nal authority,  it  destroys  the  principle  of  familv.  I 
cannot  remain  in  your  midst ;  I  go  to  spare  3'ou  the 
odious  spectacle  of  a  father  without  a  father's  dignit3'. 
Do  not  oppose  m3'  departure ;  if  you  do,  it  will  be  the 
pistol-shot  b3'  which  I  seek  my  death.  Above  all,  do  not 
follow  me  to  m3'  hiding-place  ;  3'ou  would  deprive  me 
of  the  onl3'  strength  that  remains  to  me,  that  of 
remorse.'* 

His  energetic  entreat3'  silenced  the  poor,  exhausted 
woman.     Grand  in  the  midst  of  ruin  and  desolation, 


428  Cousin  Bette. 

she  was  gathering  courage  from  her  sense  of  inward 
union  with  her  husband ;  she  knew  him  hers ;  she 
saw  her  subhme  mission  —  that  of  consoUng  him,  of 
restoring  him  to  family  life,  of  reconciling  him  with 
himself. 

''Hector,  would  3'ou  have  me  die  of  distress,  of  anxi- 
ety, of  despair  ?"  she  said,  seeing  that  her  last  hope, 
the  principle  of  her  life,  was  about  to  be  taken  from 
her. 

"I  will  return,  my  guardian  angel,  who  came  from 
heaven  to  save  me.  I  will  return,  if  not  rich,  at 
least  in  comfort.  Listen  to  me,  Adeline  ;  I  cannot  stay 
here  for  man}^  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  my  pension, 
which  is  ten  thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  is  mortgaged  for 
four  3-ears  ;  I  have  literall}'  nothing.  But  that 's  not  all. 
If  I  remain  here  I  shall  be  arrested  for  the  non-payment 
of  notes  I  have  o-iven  Vauvinet.  I  must  absent  mvself 
until  my  son,  with  whom  I  shall  leave  precise  directions, 
has  been  able  to  redeem  the  papers.  M3'  disappearance 
will  aid  the  transaction.  When  m}'  pension  is  free,  and 
when  Vauvinet  is  paid,  I  will  come  back  to  you.  You 
would  disclose  m}'  place  of  exile  if  I  told  it  to  3'ou. 
Don't  weep,  Adeline  ;  be  calm.  It  is  onl3"  for  a  month 
that  —  " 

'*  Where  are  3'ou  going?  what  can  3'ou  do?  What 
will  become  of  you ?  who  will  take  care  of  30U ?  —  3'ou, 
who  are  no  longer  3'oung !  Let  me  disappear  with  3'ou  ; 
let  us  go  abroad,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  I  will  see,"  he  answered. 

The  baron  rang  the  bell  and  told  Mariette  to  get  all 
his  things  together  and  pack  his  trunks  quickh'  and  se- 
cretlv.     Then,  after  kissing  his  wife  with  an  effusion  to 


Cousin  Bette.  429 

which  she  was  no  longer  accustomed,  he  asked  her  to 
leave  him  for  a  while  that  he  might  write  his  last  instruc- 
tions to  Victorin  ;  promising  not  to  leave  the  house  till 
night-fall  and  to  talve  her  with  him.  As  soon  as  she 
had  entered  the  salon  and  closed  the  door  the  w^ily  old 
man  passed  through  the  dressing-room  into  the  ante- 
chamber and  left  the  house,  giving  Mariette  a  paper  on 
which  was  written,  "Direct  m}'  trunks  to  Monsieur 
Hector,  Corbeil,  to  be  kept  till  called  for.  Send  them 
b}^  railroad  to  Corbeil."  He  was  in  a  hackne\'- coach 
and  already  half-across  Paris  before  Mariette  took  the 
paper  to  the  baroness,  telling  her  that  Monsieur  had 
gone  out.  Adeline  flew  into  his  bedroom,  trembling 
more  than  ever ;  her  children  followed  her  on  hearing 
a  piercing  cvy.  She  had  fainted  ;  the}'  lifted  her  and  put 
her  to  bed,  where  she  was  seized  with  a  nervous  fever 
which  kept  her  between  life  and  death  for  a  month. 

"  Where  is  he?"  were  the  onl}'  words  they  could  get 
from  her  during  that  time. 

Victorin's  search  for  his  father  was  fruitless,  —  for  the 
following  reason.  The  baron  had  gone  direct  to  the 
place  du  Palais-Ro3'al.  There,  having  summoned  all  his 
intelligence  to  carry  out  a  scheme  he  had  planned  during 
the  daj's  when  he  had  lain  on  his  bed  overcome  with 
shame  and  grief,  he  hired  a  handsome  carriage  from  a 
stable  in  the  rue  Joquelet.  The  coachman,  receiving 
his  orders,  drove  to  the  rue  de  la  Ville-l'Eveque  and 
entered  the  courtyard  of  Josepha's  mansion,  the  gates 
flying  back  at  the  call  of  the  driver  of  a  fine  equipage. 
Josepha,  informed  b}'  her  footman  that  an  old  man,  too 
feeble  to  leave  his  carriage,  was  at  the  door  asking  to 
see  her,  came  down  out  of  sheer  curiosity. 


430  Cousin   Bette. 

*' Josepha,  it  is  I!" 

The  illustrious  singer  recognized  her  former  Hulot  by 
liis  voice  onl3\ 

"What!  you,  my  old  man?  Wh}',  you  look  like 
those  five-franc  pieces  which  the  Dutch  Jews  wash  off, 
and  the  money-changers  reject !  " 

"  Alas,  3'es,"  said  Hulot,  ''  I  have  just  escaped  death. 
But  3'ou  are  always  beautiful  —  are  3'ou  still  kind  ?  " 

"  That's  according — all  is  relative,"  she  answered. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Hulot ;  "  can  you  put  me  awa}'  in 
some  servant's  room  under  the  roof,  for  a  few  days? 
I  am  without  a  penny ;  without  hope,  or  bread,  or  pen- 
sion, or  wife,  or  children,  or  refuge ;  without  honor, 
without  courage,  without  a  friend,  and  worse  than  all,  I 
am  liable  to  be  arrested  for  debt." 

' '  Poor  old  fellow  !  what  a  lot  of  withouts  !  Are  you 
without  breeches  ?  " 

"  Ah,  if  you  laugh  at  me,  I  am  lost,"  cried  the  baron. 
"Yet  1  counted  on  3'ou  as  Gourville  on  Ninon." 

"  I  'm  told  it  is  a  fashionable  woman  who  has  dragged 
3'OU  into  your  present  plight,"  said  Josepha.  "Those 
minxes  know  how  to  pluck  a  turkey  better  than  we  do ! 
Why,  you  are  like  a  carcass  thrown  to  the  crows.  I  can 
see  davlio'ht  throuf^h  vou." 

"  I  am  in  a  hurr3^,  Josepha." 

"Well,  come  in,  old  man;  I'm  alone,  and  my  ser- 
vants don't  know  vou.  Send  awa3'  your  carriage.  Have 
you  paid  the  fare  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  baron,  getting  out,  and  leaning 
on  Josepha's  arm. 

"You  can  pass  for  my  father,  if  3'ou  like,"  said  the 
singer,  full  of  pit3'. 


Cousin   Bette.  431 

She  made  Hector  sit  down  in  the  splendid  room  where 
he  had  last  seen  her. 

"Is  it  true,  old  fellow,"  she  said,  "that  3'ou  have 
killed  your  brother  and  3our  uncle,  ruined  your  famil}-, 
mortgaged  and  remortgaged  your  property-,  and  made 
ducks  and  drakes  of  the  government  money  with  your 
princess?" 

The  baron  nodded  sadly. 

"Ha!  I  admire  that!"  cried  Josepha,  jumping  up 
enthusiasticall3\  "General  conflagration!  Sardanapa- 
lus  I  that 's  grand  !  that 's  thorough  !  You  may  be  a 
scoundrel ;  but  3'ou  have  a  heart.  For  my  part,  I 
prefer  a  passionate  spendthrift  like  you,  who  wastes 
his  substance  on  women,  to  those  cold  bankers  with- 
out souls,  virtuous  (so  called),  who  ruin  thousands  of 
families  with  their  railwa3's,  which  are  gold  to  them 
and  iron  to  others.  As  for  you,  you  have  onl}'  ruined 
3'our  family  ;  you  have  injured  none  but  yourself.  Be- 
sides, you  had  an  excuse,  —  a  moral  and  physical  ex- 
cuse. '  'T  is  Venus  herself  who  has  grasped  her  prey  1 '  " 
she  cried,  pirouetting. 

Thus  was  Hulot  absolved  b}'  vice  —  vice  smiling  upon 
him  from  the  midst  of  its  unbridled  luxur3\  The  gran- 
deur of  his  crimes  seemed  there,  as  often  happens  be- 
fore juries,  an  extenuating  circumstance. 

"Is  she  prett3',  —  your  society  woman ?"  demanded 
Josepha,  trying,  out  of  charit3',  to  divert  the  baron's 
mind  ;  for  his  evident  suffering  distressed  her. 
I      "  Almost  as  prett3^  as  3'ou,"  said  the  baron,  shrewdl3'. 

"  And  verv  —  trick3',  the3'  tell  me.  What  did  she  do 
to  you  ?  —  worse  than  I  ?  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,"  said  Hulot. 


432  Cousin  Bette, 

' '  They  do  say  she  has  snared  my  old  Crevel  and 
little  Steinbock  and  a  splendid  Brazilian  — " 

"  Possibly." 

"  She  is  living  in  as  pretty  a  house  as  this,  which 
Crevel  gave  her.  That  creature  is  my  scavenger ;  she 
sweeps  up  my  leavings.  Come,  old  man,  I  want  to 
know  all  about  her.  I  have  seen  her  in  an  open  car- 
riage in  the  Bois,  but  onl}^  at  a  distance.  La  Carabine 
sa3's  she  is  a  thorough  harpy.  She  tried  to  eat  up  Cre- 
vel, but  could  onl}'  get  a  nibble  at  him.  Crevel  is  an 
old  skinflint,  a  good-natured  tight-fist  who  always  says 
yes,  and  there  it  ends.  He  's  vain  and  he  's  hot ;  but 
his  mone}^  is  cold.  We  get  nothing  out  of  such  fellows 
but  two  or  three  thousand  francs  a  month  ;  the}"  balk  at 
prodigality  like  donkej's  at  a  river.  That 's  not  you, 
old  man  ;  you  've  got  passions.  We  could  make  3'ou 
do  anything,  —  sell  your  country !  And  so,  you  see, 
I  am  ready  to  do  everj^thing  for  you.  You  were  mj- 
father ;  3'ou  launched  me.  The  obligation  is  sacred. 
How  much  do  3'ou  want?  —  a  hundred  thousand  francs? 
I  '11  go  all  lengths  to  get  them  for  you.  As  for  food 
and  lodging,  that 's  nothing.  Your  plate  will  alwa^'s 
be  laid  at  my  table,  and  there  's  a  good  bedroom  on  the 
second  floor ;  and  you  shall  have  three  hundred  francs  a 
month  pocket-money." 

The  baron,  touched  b^^  this  kindness,  had  a  momen- 
tar}'  return  of  dignity. 

"No,  my  dear,  no,"  he  said;  "  I  did  not  come  to 
ask  3'OU  to  support  me." 

"You  might  be  proud  of  it,  though,  at  3'our  age." 

"  Here  is  what  I  want  you  to  do.  Your  Due  d'Herou- 
ville  owns  large  estates  in  Normandy.    I  want  to  be  his 


Cousin  Bette,  433 

steward,  under  the  name  of  Thoul.  I  have  enough  abil- 
\iy  and  I  am  honest.  Yes,  a  man  may  take  from  the 
government,  but  it  does  n't  follow  that  he  '11  rob  a  till." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  laughed  Josepha.  "  He  who  has  drunk 
will  drink ! " 

"  All  I  want  is  to  live  in  hiding  for  three  3'ears." 

"  That's  a  trifling  matter,"  said  Josepha  ;  ''  to-night, 
after  dinner,  I  have  onh'  to  ask  him.  The  duke  would 
marrj'  me  if  I  wished  it ;  but  I  have  his  fortune,  and 
I  want  more  —  his  esteem.  He  is  a  prince  of  the  old 
school,  —  noble,  distinguished,  grand,  like  Louis  XIV 
and  Napoleon  rolled  into  one,  though  he  is  a  dicarf. 
Besides,  I  have  acted  by  him  as  La  Schontz  did  hy 
Rochefide  ;  he  has  just  made  two  millions  b}'  taking  my 
advice.  Now  listen,  my  old  fire-eater.  I  know  you,  — 
3'ou  love  women  ;  and  down  there  on  the  duke's  prop- 
erty you  would  run  after  the  Norman  girls  (for  the}'  're 
superb),  and  3'ou  would  get  vour  head  broken  by  the 
lovers  or  the  fathers,  and  D'Herouville  would  have  to 
dismiss  30U.  Don't  I  know,  b}'  the  wa3'  3'ou  are  looking 
at  me  now,  that  3'outh  is  not  yet  dead  in  3'ou,  as  Fen- 
elon  sa3's?  Stewardship  is  no  business  for  3'ou.  You 
could  n't  break  awa3'  if  30U  would,  old  fellow,  from  vour 
Paris  wa3-s  and  from  all  of  us.  You  would  die  of  ennui 
down  there  in  Normand}'." 

"  What  else  can  I  do?  I  will  only  sta3'  with  3*ou  long 
enough  to  find  somewhere  to  go." 

"  Well,  what  do  3'ou  sa3'  to  an  idea  of  mine?  Lis- 
ten, old  i;ake.  You  must  have  women ;  they  console 
for  ever3thing.  Now  I  know  a  girl  who  is  a  treasure, 
down  there  at  the  foot  of  the  Courtille,  rue  vSaint-Maur 
du  Temple,  —  a,prett3'  girl,  prettier  than  I  was  at  six- 

28 


434  Cousin    Bette. 

teen  —  Ha  !  your  e^'es  sparkle  already  !  She  works 
sixteen  hours  a  day  embroidering  handsome  things  for 
the  silk-dealers,  and  all  she  gets  for  it  is  sixteen  sons, 
—  a  sou  an  hour  !  Horrors  !  She  lives,  like  the  Irish, 
on  potatoes  (only  she  fries  them  in  rat  grease),  bread 
five  times  a  week,  and  canal-water  from  the  street-pipes, 
because  the  Seine  water  costs  too  dear.  She  can't  set 
up  a  shop  of  her  own  short  of  five  or  six  thousand 
francs  —  there  isn't  an3'thing  she  wouldn't  do  for  thnt 
sum.  Your  wife  and  famil}'  bore  3'ou,  —  don't  they? 
Besides,  you  could  n't  live  now  where  3'Ou  were  once 
a  god.  A  father  without  money  and  without  honor  !  — 
he  's  a  notliing,  a  man  of  straw.  He  ought  to  be  kept 
out  of  sight  —  " 

The  baron  smiled  drearily. 

"  Well,  little  Bijou  is  coming  here  to-morrow  with  an 
embroidered  dress,  —  a  perfect  love.  It  took  her  six 
months  to  do,  and  nobod}'  is  to  have  one  like  it.  Bijou 
loves  me,  for  I  give  her  sweet  things  and  all  my  old 
gowns.  I  send  bread  tickets  and  wood  tickets  and  meat 
for  the  famil}',  who  would  all  break  their  necks  in  my 
service  if  I  asked  it.  I  try  to  do  some  good.  Ah  !  I 
suffered  enough  when  I  went  liungr}' !  Bijou  tells  me 
all  her  little  secrets.  She  has  the  makings  of  a  ballet- 
girl  for  the  Ambigu-Comique  in  her.  She  dreams  of 
dresses  like  mine,  and  specially  of  driving  in  a  carriage. 
If  I  say  to  her,  '  My  prett}',  do  3'ou  want  a  gentle- 
man of — '  How  old  are  3'OU?"  said  Josepha,  snddenlv 
interrupting  herself,  —  "  sevent3'?  " 

"  I  'm  of  no  age  now." 

"  Shall  I  say  seventy?  —  ver3'  neat,  never  takes  snuff, 
sound  as  a  roach,  and  just  as  good  as  a  3'oung  man? 


Cousin   Bette.  435 

I'll  tell  her  she  can  marry  3-011  bv  the  left  hand  aid 
live  very  happily  ever  after ;  and  that  you  '11  give  her 
seven  thousand  francs  to  set  up  a  business,  and  a  hun- 
dred francs  a  month  to  keep  house  on,  and  furnish 
her  rooms  in  mahogany,  and  sometimes,  if  she  is 
very  good,  take  her  to  the  theatre.  T  know  Bijou, 
she 's  myself  at  fourteen !  I  jumped  for  joy  when 
that  abominable  Crevel  proposed  to  me.  Now,  m}' 
old  fellow  !  this  will  pack  you  out  of  sight  for  three 
years.  It's  decent,  it's  honest,  and  moreover,  it  will 
give  you  some  illusions  for  three  or  four  3'ears,  —  not 
longer." 

Hulot  was  not  hesitating,  for  he  was  determined  to 
refuse  the  offer ;  but  his  desire  to  show  gratitude  to 
Josepha,  who  was  doing  good  after  her  kind,  made  him 
appear  to  vacillate  between  vice  and  virtue. 

"Why  you 're  as  cold  as  the  stones  in  December," 
she  exclaimed,  astonished.  "If  you  do  as  I  tell  you, 
you'll  be  the  providence  of  a  grandfather  who  earns 
nothing,  a  mother  who  is  dying  of  overwork,  and  of  two 
sisters,  one  of  whom  is  ugly,  wlio  can  earn  only  thirty- 
two  sous  a  day  between  them,  at  the  risk  of  putting  out 
their  eyes.  That  will  compensate  for  all  the  harm  you 
have  done  at  home  ;  you  '11  redeem  your  misdeeds  and 
amuse  yourself  like  a  lorette  at  Mabille." 

Hulot,  to  put  an  end  to  the  temptation,  made  a  sign 
of  being  without  a  penny. 

"  As  for  that,"  said  Josepha,  "  never  mind  about  the 
wa\'s  and  means.  My  duke  will  lend  you  ten  thousand 
francs,  —  seven  thousand  to  set  up  Bijou  in  a  shop  of 
her  own,  three  thousand  for  furniture,  — and  everv  three 
months  3-ou  '11  find  a  cheque  here  for  six  hundred  and 


436  Cousin  Bette. 

fifty  francs  to  live  on.  When  you  get  back  your  pen- 
sion you  must  return  the  total,  seventeen  thousand  in 
all,  to  the  duke.  Meantime  you  '11  be  as  happ3'  as  a 
cricket,  hidden  awa}'  in  a  little  hole  where  the  police 
can't  find  30U.  You  '11  have  to  wear  a  big  beaver  coat, 
and  make  believe  you  are  owner  of  some  neighboring 
house,  in  easy  circumstances.  Call  yourself  Thoul,  if 
that 's  your  fancy.  I  sliall  tell  Bijou  that  you  are  an 
uncle  of  mine,  just  come  from  German}',  —  you'll  be 
worshipped  like  a  god.  80  there  you  are,  papa !  and 
perhaps,  who  knows,  you  '11  be  so  happy  you  '11  never 
regret  the  past.  If  you  do  get  dull  sometimes,  keep  a 
dress-coat  ready  and  come  here  to  dinner  and  spend 
the  evening  with  me." 

'•  But  I  meant  to  be  virtuous,  respectable  !  No,  lend 
me  twenty  thousand  francs  and  I 'II  go  and  make  my 
fortune  in  America,  like  my  friend  d'Aiglemont  when 
Nucino'en  ruined  him." 

''You!"  cried  Josepha,  *"  no,  no,  leave  moralit}'  to 
the  shopkeepers,  the  ever^'-da}'  thieves  and  murderers, 
the  French  citizens  who  have  nothino-  but  virtue  to  fall 
back  upon.  You  were  never  born  for  such  silliness  ! 
As  a  man  you  are  just  what  I  am  as  a  woman,  —  an 
out-and-out  vagabond  !  " 

"Night  brings  wisdom,"  said  Hulot.  "AYe'll  talk 
of  this  to-morrow." 

"  You  will  dine  with  the  duke  to-night.  M}^  Herou- 
ville  will  receive  you  politely,  as  if  you  had  just  saved 
the  State,  and  to-morrow  you  can  decide.  Come,  be 
livel}',  m}-  old  friend.  Life's  but  a  garment,  —  when 
it's  dirty,  brnsh  it;  when  it's  torn,  mend  it ;  make  it 
last  as  long  and  as  good  as  you  can." 


Cousin  Bette.  437 

This  philosoph}'  of  vice  and  Josepha's  ga^^ety  com- 
bined removed  the  last  of  Hulot's  scvLiples. 

The  next  da}^  after  a  succulent  breakfast,  the  baron 
l)eheld  one  of  those  living  masterpieces  which  Paris 
alone  manufactures,  by  reason  of  the  perpetual  concu- 
binage of  luxury  and  povert}^,  vice  and  decency,  re- 
pressed desire  and  continual  temptation,  which  makes 
this  cit}'  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  Ninevehs,  the 
Baby  Ions,  and  the  one  imperial  Rome.  Mademoiselle 
Olympe  Bijou,  a  little  girl  of  sixteen,  had  a  face  like  a 
Raphael  Madonna,  e3'es  of  weary  innocence,  weary  with 
incessant  toil,  dreamy  dark  e3'es  with  long  lashes, 
whose  liquid  lights  weie  drying  up  under  the  fire  of 
laborious  nights,  —  ej'es  that  grew  darker  still  with  the 
gloom  of  exhaustion,  —  a  porcelain  skin  that  was  almost 
sickly,  a  mouth  like  the  inside  of  a  pomegranate,  a 
throbbing  bosom,  the  lines  of  the  figure  full  and  rounded, 
pretty  hands,  pearl-white  teeth,  abundant  black  hair ; 
and  all  these  beauties  dressed  in  a  twelve-sous  calico, 
an  embroidered  collar,  leather  shoes  without  nails,  and 
gloves  of  the  cheapest  make.  The  child,  who  did  not 
know  her  own  worth,  had  donned  her  best  clothes  to  go 
to  the  house  of  a  great  lad}'.  The  baron,  instantly 
gripped  b}-  the  claw  fingers  of  vice,  felt  his  whole  being 
going  out  through  his  eyes.  He  forgot  all  before  this 
vision  of  beauty.  He  was  like  a  hunter  in  sight  of  the 
game. 

"Guaranteed  innocent,"  whispered  Josepha,  "and 
poor.  That 's  3'our  Paris.  I  've  been  through  it  \ny- 
self." 

"I  decide"  said  the  baron,  rising  and  rubbing  his 
hands.         -  ^ 


438  Comin  Bette. 

AV4ien  Ol3'mpe  Bijou  had  left  the  house  Josepha  looked 
slyly  at  the  old  man. 

''  If  you  don't  want  to  have  trouble,  papa,"  she  said, 
*'  begin  firm  ;  be  as  stern  as  a  judge  on  the  bench  ;  hold 
the  httle  thins;  in  hand.  Be  a  Bartholo.  Look  out  for 
the  Augustuses  and  Hippolytuses  and  Nestors  and 
Victors,  and  all  the  rest  of  them.  Plague  take  it !  if 
3'ou  let  her  get  her  head  after  she  is  once  well-fed  and 
well-clothed,  she'll  drag  you  about  like  a  Russian.  I  '11 
attend  to  settling  you  down  there.  The  duke  has  been 
liberal ;  he  lends  you  —  that  is  to  sa}',  he  gives  3'ou  —  ten 
thousand  francs  and  puts  eight  of  them  with  his  notar}', 
who  is  to  pa}'  you  six  hundred  quarterl}',  —  for  the  fact 
is,  I  can't  trust  you.     Am  I  charming?" 

"  Adorable." 

Ten  days  after  he  had  abandoned  his  familj',  and  at 
the  very  moment  when  his  children  were  standing  in 
tears  around  the  bed  of  the  half-dvino;  Adeline,  who 
was  saying  in  feeble  tones,  "Where  is  he?"  Hulot, 
under  the  anagram  of  Thoul,  went  to  live  with  Olympe 
in  the  rue  Saint-Maur,  at  the  head  of  an  establishment 
for  embroideries,  which  was  called  by  the  associated 
names  of  Thoul  and  Bijou. 


Co2isi7i  Bette,  439 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE    SWORD    OF    DAMOCLES. 

Through  the  implacable  misfortunes  of  his  family, 
Victoria  Hulot  received  that  last  touch  which  corrupts 
a  man  or  perfects  him.  He  became  perfect.  In  the 
great  tempests  of  life  we  follow  the  example  of  wise 
captains  who  fling  the  heavier  merchandise  overboard 
in  a  hurricane  to  lighten  the  ship.  The  lawyer  laid 
aside  his  inward  pride,  his  outward  assumption,  his  ar- 
rogance as  an  orator,  and  his  political  pretensions.  In 
fact  he  became  as  a  man  what  his  mother  was  as  a 
woman.  He  resolved  to  accept  his  Celestine  for  wliat 
she  was,  —  certainly  not  the  realization  of  his  dreams, 
—  he  judged  life  soberh',  and  saw  that  the  common 
law  of  existence  oblis^es  men  to  be  content  in  all  thino;s 
with  the  approximate.  He  swore  within  himself  to  do 
his  dut}',  —  so  deep  was  the  horror  his  father's  con- 
duct caused  him.  This  resolution  was  renewed  and 
strengthened  b}'  the  bedside  of  his  mother  on  the  day 
slie  was  pronounced  out  of  danger.  That  first  relief 
did  not  come  singh*.  On  the  same  da}'  Claude  Vignon, 
who  inquired  daily  for  Madame  Hulot  on  behalf  of  the 
Prince  de  Wissembourg,  requested  Victorin  to  return 
with  him  to  the  ministr}'. 

"His  Excellenc}',"  he  said,  "wishes  to  confer  with 
von  about  vour  family  affairs." 


440  Cousin  Bette. 

Victorin  and  the  minister  had  known  each  other  for  a 
long  time,  and  the  latter  now  received  the  joung  man 
with  a  characteristic  atfability  that  augured  well. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  old  warrior,  "I  swore  to 
your  uncle,  the  marshal,  in  this  room,  to  take  care  of 
3'our  mother.  That  noble  woman  will,  I  am  told,  re- 
cover her  health.  The  moment  has  therefore  come  to 
heal  the  family'  wounds.  I  have  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  for  3'ou,  which  I  will  now  pay  over." 

The  lawyer  made  a  gesture  of  refusal  w^orthy  of  his 
uncle  the  marshal. 

"  Do  not  be  uneasy,"  said  the  prince  smiling;  "  the 
money  was  onl}'  placed  in  my  hands  in  trust  for  your 
famil}'.  M3'  days  are  numbered  ;  I  shall  not  be  here 
long, — take  the  money,  therefore,  and  replace  me  as 
trustee.  You  are  at  liberty  to  use  it  to  lift  the  mortgages 
from  your  house.  The  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
belong  to  3'our  mother  and  sister  ;  but  if  I  gave  them  to 
Madame  Hulot  lier  devotion  to  her  husband  is  such  that 
I  fear  she  would  waste  them  on  him,  and  the  intention 
of  those  who  placed  the  mone3'  in  m3'  hands  was  that 
it  should  benefit  Madame  Ilulot  and  her  daughter,  the 
Comtesse  Steinbock.  You  are  a  moral  man,  the  worth3^ 
son  of  your  noble  mother,  a  true  nephew  of  m3'  friend 
the  marshal.  You  are  appreciated  here,  ra3'  3'oung 
friend,  as  you  are  elsewhere.  Be,  therefore,  the  guar- 
dian of  your  family.  Accept  this  legac3'  on  their  behalf 
from  3'our  uncle  and  from  me." 

"  Monseigneur,"  said  Hulot,  taking  the  minister's 
liand  and  pressing  it,  "  men  in  3'our  position  know  that 
words  of  gratitude  mean  nothing,  —  thankfulness  must 
prove  itself  b3^  deeds." 


Cousin  Bette.  441 

*' Prove  3'onrs,"  said  the  old  soldier. 

"What  must  I  do?" 

"Accept  an  offer.  The  government  wishes  to  ap- 
point you  counsel  for  war-claims,  the  engineering  de- 
partment being  overcrowded  with  htigations  in  relation 
to  the  fortifications  of  Paris  ;  also  legal  adviser  at  the 
prefecture  of  police,  and  counsel  for  the  civil-list.  These 
three  functions  will  give  you  a  combined  salary  of 
eighteen  thousand  francs  and  will  not  deprive  you  of 
independence.  You  can  vote  in  the  Chamber  accord- 
ing to  3'our  conscience-  and  3'our  political  opinions, 
—  you  are  free  to  act ;  we  should  only  be  hampered 
if  we  had  no  national  opposition.  In  conclusion  let  me 
say  that  I  received  a  note  from  your  uncle,  written 
a  few  hours  before  he  died,  in  which  he  suggested  a 
line  of  conduct  towards  your  dear  mother.  Mesdames 
Popinot,  de  Rastignac,  de  Navarreins,  de  Grandlieu, 
de  Carigliano,  de  Lenoncourt,  and  de  la  Bastie  have 
created  a  place  for  her  as  inspectress  of  benevolent  en- 
terprises. These  presidents  of  various  societies  for  good 
works  cannot  do  all  that  their  offices  require ;  they  need 
some  lad}'  fitted  to  act  for  them,  to  visit  their  cases,  see 
that  charity  is  not  imposed  upon,  make  sure  that  relief 
goes  to  the  right  apphcant,  and  seek  out  the  deserving 
and  shrinking  poor.  Your  mother  could  well  fulfil  that 
angelic  mission  ;  she  would  be  responsible  to  the  clerg\' 
and  to  these  charitable  ladies  onl}' ;  she  would  receive 
six  thousand  francs  a  3'ear  and  her  carriage  hire.  You 
see,  m}'  young  friend,  that  the  pure  man,  the  nobh-  vir- 
tuous man,  protects  his  famil}"  even  from  the  grave. 
The  memor}'  of  such  men  as  your  uncle  is  and  ever 
should  be  an  a^gis  against   evil   in  all   well  organized 


442  Cousin  Bette. 

societies.     Follow  his  path  ;   continue  in  his  steps,  — - 
your  feet  are  there  alread}',  I  know  that." 

''Such  delicate  kindness,  prince,  cannot  surprise  rat 
in  ni}'  uncle's  friend,"  said  Victorin.  "  I  will  endeavor 
to  answer  your  expectations." 

"  Go  and  comfort  3'our  faniil}'  with  the  news —  But 
sta}^,  tell  me  before  you  go,"  added  the  prince,  taking 
Victorin  b}-  the  hand,  "•  has  3'our  father  disappeared?" 

"Alas,  yes." 

"  So  much  the  better.  In  so  doing  the  unhappy  man 
has  shown,  what  he  realh'  possesses,  good  sense." 

"  He  had  notes  he  could  not  meet." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Marechal.  "Well,  you  shall  re- 
ceive six  months'  salarj'  in  advance.  That  will  help  3'ou 
to  get  his  notes  from  the  mone3'-lenders.  I  '11  see  Nucin- 
gen,  and  perhaps  I  can  persuade  him  to  release  your 
father's  pension,  without  its  costing  you  or  the  War  office 
a  penn}'.  A  peerage  has  not  killed  the  banker  in  Nu- 
cingen ;  he  is  insatiable,  and  he  wants  some  grant,  I 
forget  what,  out  of  us." 

Victorin  was  thus  enabled  to  carry  out  his  desire  to 
take  his  mother  and  sister  to  live  with  him.  The  only 
propert}'  that  he  owned  was  one  of  the  finest  species 
of  real  estate  in  Paris  ;  a  house  bought  in  1834  in 
preparation  for  his  marriage,  situated  on  the  boule- 
vard, between  the  rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  rue  Louis-le- 
Grand.  A  speculator  had  built  two  houses  on  the  street 
and  boulcA^ard,  between  which,  separated  from  both  by 
a  garden  and  courtyard  on  each  side,  stood  a  beautiful 
pavilion,  a  relic  of  the  splendors  of  the  great  Verneuil 
mansion.  Victorin  Ilulot,  sure  of  Mademoiselle  Cre- 
vel's  dowrv,  bought  this  superb  property  at  auction  for 


Cousin   Bette.  443 

a  million  of  francs,  on  which  he  paid  five  hundred  thou- 
sand down.  He  lived  on  the  ground-floor  of  the  pa- 
vilion, expecting  to  pa}'  the  full  costs  of  the  house  by 
letting  the  various  apartments.  But  though  speculation 
in  houses  may  be  a  sure  thing  it  is.  also  either  slow  or 
capricious,  for  success  depends  on  c-ircumstances  that 
are  not  to  be  foreseen.  Idlers  in  Paris  must  have 
noticed  that  the  boulevard  between  the  rue  Louis-le- 
Grand  and  the  rue  de  la  Paix  was  slow  to  become  prof- 
itable ;  it  was  cleared  out  and  improved  with  such  dela}' 
that  commerce  did  not  displav  its  gorgeous  shop-win- 
dows filled  with  the  fair}'  fabrics  of  fashion  and  the 
splendors  of  luxury  till  1841. 

Althouojh  in  the  course  of  seven  vears  Victorin  had 
paid  a  part  of  the  remaining  purchase-money,  yet  in 
consequence  of  the  relief  he  had  afforded  his  father,  the 
debt  on  the  propert}'  now  amounted  to  five  hundred 
thousand  francs.  Happily,  rents  were  increasing,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  situation  had  begun  to  give  a  real 
value  to  the  two  houses.  Offers  came  from  different 
merchants  of  good  terms  for  the  shop,  provided  they 
could  have  leases  for  terms  of  j'ears.  The  apartments 
also  increased  in  value  bv  the  removal  of  the  business 
centre  to  the  neighborhood  between  the  Bourse  and  the 
Madeleine,  henceforth  the  seat  of  political  and  financial 
power.  The  two  houses,  the  various  apartments  of  which 
were  now  all  rented,  brought  in  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  a-3'ear.  In  two  3'ears  more,  during  w^hich  time 
young  Hulot  could  live  on  the  salaries  given  him  by  the 
Marechal,  the  family  would  be  free  from  debt  and  in  a 
splendid  financial  position.  It  was  hke  manna  falling 
fiom  heaven.     Victorin  could  oive  the  first  floor  of  the 


444  Cousin  Bette. 

pavilion  to  liis  mother,  and  the  second  floor  to  his  sis- 
ter, where  two  rooms  were  reserved  for  Bette.  Young 
Hnlot  himself,  gifted  with  the  faculty  of  legal  speech, 
and  a  man  of  spotless  integrity-,  gained  the  ear  of  judges 
and  councillors  and  rapidly  eclipsed  his  competitors  of 
the  bar.  He  studied  cases,  he  advanced  nothing  he 
could  not  prove,  refused  to  take  indiscriminatelj'  all 
causes  that  were  offered  to  him,  and  became,  in  time, 
regarded  as  an  honor  to  the  profession. 

The  house  in  the  rue  Plumet  had  grown  so  distasteful 
to  the  baroness  that  she  willingl}^  allowed  her  son  to 
move  her  to  the  rue  Louis-le-Grand,  where  she  occu- 
pied a  charming  apartment.  All  housekeeping  cares 
were  spared  to  her  b}^  Lisbeth,  who  agreed  to  perform 
once  more  tlie  economical  feats  she  had  formerly  under- 
taken for  Madame  Marneffe,  foreseeing  the  chance  of 
wreaking  her  secret  vengeance  on  these  noble  lives,  now, 
after  the  overthrow  of  all  her  hopes,  the  objects  of  her 
redoubled  hatred.  Once  a  month  she  went  to  see  Val- 
erie, sent  b}^  Hortense,  who  wanted  news  of  Wenceslas, 
and  by  Celestine,  extremely  uneasy  at  the  avowed  and 
acknowledged  intimacy  of  her  father  with  the  woman  to 
whom  her  mother  and  sister-in-law  owed  their  ruin  and 
their  misery.  Lisbeth,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  used 
this  curiosit}'  to  enable  her  to  see  Valerie  as  often  as 
she  wished  to  do  so. 

About  twent}'  months  passed  in  this  way,  during  which 
time  Madame  Hulot's  health  improved,  although  the 
nervous  trembling  of  her  head  and  hands  did  not  de- 
crease. She  soon  mastered  her  new  functions,  which 
gave  noble  relief  to  her  sorrows  and  suitable  nourish- 
ment for  the  divine  qualities  of  her  nature.     She  saw 


Cousin   Bette.  445 

also  the  means  of  possibl}'  recovering  her  husband  in  a 
work  which  took  her  into  all  quarters  of  Paris.  Dur- 
ino'  these  months  the  baron's  notes  to  Vauvinet  were 
paid  off  and  his  pension  almost  liberated.  The  poor 
wife  might  have  attained  to  something  like  happiness, 
had  it  not  been  for  her  ceaseless  anxiet}'  about  her 
husband,  her  desire  that  he  should  share  in  the  renewed 
prosperit}'  of  tlie  famih',  her  grief  at  her  daughter's 
forlorn  position,  and  the  terrible  blows  rained  upon  her 
with  apparent  innocence  by  Lisbeth,  whose  fiendish 
nature  now  had  full  swing. 

A  scene  took  place  earh'  in  March,  1843,  which  will 
serve  to  show  the  effects  produced  by  the  persistent  latent 
hatred  of  Bette,  aided  continually  by  Madame  Marneffe. 
Two  great  events  had  happened  in  the  latter's  house- 
hold. In  the  first  place  she  had  given  birth  to  a  still-born 
child,  whose  death  brought  her  an  annuity'  of  two  thou- 
sand francs.  Then  her  husband's  health  failed  rapidly  ; 
we  give  the  report  which  Bette  made  to  the  Hulot  family- 
on  her  return  one  da}'  from  the  Marneflfe  mansion  :  — 

''That  dreadful  Valerie  sent  for  Doctor  Bianchon 
this  morning  to  make  sure  that  the  other  doctors  who 
pronounced  Marneffe  dying  the  night  before  were  not 
mistaken.  Bianchon  sa^-s  the  wretch  will  go  to  the  hell 
where  he  belongs  before  night.  Old  Crevel  and  Madame 
Marneffe  followed  the  doctor  out,  and  your  father,  my 
dear  Celestine,  gave  him  six  gold  pieces  for  the  good 
news.  When  the}'  came  back  to  the  salon,  Crevel  cut 
capers  like  a  ballet-dancer;  he  kissed  that  woman, 
shouting  out,  '  Now  I  'II  have  a  Madame  Crevel  ! ' 
And  when  she  returned  to  her  husband's  bedside  and 
left  us  alone,  your  honorable  parent  said  to  me :   '  With 


446  Cousin  Bette. 

Valerie  for  a  wife,  I  shall  be  peer  of  France.  I  shall 
bin'  that  estate  I  covet,  —  Presles,  which  Madame  de 
Seriz}'  wants  to  sell ;  I  shall  be  Crevel  de  Presles ;  I 
shall  become  a  member  of  the  council-general  for  the 
Seine-et-Oise,  and  deput}-.  I  shall  have  a  son.  I  shall 
be  all  I  choose  to  be  ! '  '"  Well,'  said  I,  '  and  what 
about  Celestine  ? '  '  Bah !  she  is  only  a  daughter,' 
he  replied ;  '  she  has  grown  too  much  of  a  Hulot,  and 
Valerie  has  a  horror  of  the  whole  family.  My  son-in- 
law  chose  never  to  come  here  :  why  should  he  set  up  for 
a  mentor,  a  Spartan,  a  puritan,  a  philanthropist?  Be- 
sides, I  have  done  my  dut}"  to  my  daughter ;  she  has 
had  her  mother's  property  and  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  to  boot.  I  am  at  liberty  to  do  as  I  like.  I  shall 
see  how  m}'  son-in-law  and  my  daughter  behave  about 
my  marriage.  As  they  behave,  so  shall  I.  If  they  treat 
their  step-mother  well,  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do  !  I  am  a 
man,  and  not  a  brute  ! '  —  and  all  such  stuff!  and  then 
he  struck  an  attitude  like  Napoleon  on  his  column."  . 

The  ten-months'  legal  widowhood  ordained  b}'  the 
Code  Napoleon  had  just  expired.  Presles  had  been  pur- 
chased. Victorin  and  Celestine  sent  Lisbeth  one  morn- 
ing to  Madame  Marneffe's  to  ascertain  when  the 
charming  widow  was  to  marry  the  mayor  of  Paris,  now 
a  member  of  the  council-general  of  the  Seine-et-Oise. 

Celestine  and  Hortense,  whose  affection  was  increased 
by  living  under  one  roof,  were  continually  together. 
The  baroness,  influenced  by  her  sense  of  honor,  exag- 
gerated the  duties  of  her  office  and  sacrificed  herself  to 
the  works  of  mercy  for  which  she  was  the  intermediarv, 
going  out  daih'  at  eleven  o'clock  and  not  returning  home 
till  five.    The  sisters-in4aw,  occupied  with  their  children, 


Cousin   Bctte.  447 

whom  the}'  cared  for  together,  stayed  at  home  with  their 
sewing  all  day.  The}'  came  at  last  to  think  aloud,  —  a 
touching  spectacle  of  sisterly  union,  one  sister  cheerful, 
the  other  dispirited.  Beautiful,  overflowing  with  life, 
animated,  smiling,  and  witty,  the  unfortunate  Hortense 
seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  her  real  position  ;  while  the 
depressed  Celestine,  gentle,  calm,  and  equable  as  reason 
itself,  habitually  pensive  and  deliberate,  gave  an  impres- 
sion of  inward  grief.  Perhaps  this  contrast  contributed 
to  their  warm  friendship.  The  two  women  lent  to  each 
other  what  the  other  lacked.  Sitting  in  a  little  arbor  in 
the  garden,  which  the  mania  for  speculation  in  bricks 
and  moi-tar  had  left  untouched  through  the  fanc}'  of  a 
builder  who  meant  to  keep  these  hundred  square  feet  of 
open  ground  for  himself,  they  enjoyed  the  l)looming  of 
the  lilacs,  that  spring  delight  which  is  only  truly  felt 
in  Paris,  where  for  six  months  Parisians  live  in  total 
forgetfulness  of  vegetation  between  those  cliffs  of  stone 
where  the  ocean  of  their  human  life  tosses  and  flows. 

"  Celestine,"  said  Hortense,  replying  to  a  remark  of 
her  sister-in-law,  who  was  complaining  that  her  hus- 
band had  to  waste  such  fine  weather  at  the  Chamber, 
"  I  think  you  don't  pi'operly  appreciate  your  blessings. 
Victorin  is  an  angel ;  and  you  plague  him  sometimes." 

"  M}'  dear,  men  like  to  be  plagued.  Cei'tain  squal)- 
bles  are  a  sign  of  love.  If  3'our  poor  mother  had  been, 
I  won't  say  exacting,  but  near  to  being  so,  you  would 
not  have  had  so  many  troubles  to  deplore." 

'' Lisbeth  doesn't  come  back!  I  shall  sing  Marl- 
borough's song,"  said  Hortense.  "I  long  for  news  of 
Wenceslas.  How  does  he  manage  to  live?  He  has 
not  done  a  thins:  for  two  vears." 


448  Cousin  Be  tie. 

"  Victorin  saw  him  the  other  da}'  with  that  odious 
woman.  He  thinks  slie  supports  liim  in  idleness.  Ah  ! 
dear  sister,  if  you  only  would,  you  could  get  him  back 
again." 

Hortense  made  a  sign  in  the  negative. 

"  But  your  situation  will  soon  become  intolerable," 
said  Celestine.  "At  first,  anger,  despair,  and  indigna- 
tion gave  you  strength  ;  after  that,  the  almost  unheard- 
of  troubles  that  fell  upon  us  —  two  deaths,  the  ruin 
and  disappearance  of  Baron  Hulot  —  have  filled  your 
thoughts  and  your  heart.  But  now  that  quiet  and 
silence  have  settled  down  upon  us,  3'ou  will  not  easily 
bear  the  void  in  3'our  life';  and  as  3'ou  cannot,  and 
never  will,  leave  the  path  of  honor,  it  stands  to  rea- 
son that  you  must  be  reconciled  with  Wenceslas.  Vic- 
torin, who  loves  3'ou  so  much,  thinks  as  I  do.  There 
is  something  stronger  than  our  sentiments,  —  I  mean 
our  nature." 

"  A  man  so  base  !  "  cried  Hortense,  scornfulh^  "  He 
loves  that  woman  because  she  supports  him  !  Paid  his 
debts,  has  she?  Good  God  !  I  think  night  and  da}^  of 
the  situation  that  man  has  put  himself  in  !  He  is  the 
father  of  my  child,  and  he  disgraces  himself!  " 

"  Look  at  your  mother,  dear,"  said  Celestine. 

Celestine  belonged  to  the  class  of  women  who,  after 
3'OU  have  given  them  reasons  strong  enough  to  con- 
vince a  Breton  peasant,  return  for  the  hundredth  time 
to  their  original  argument.  The  character  of  her  some- 
what insipid,  cold,  and  common  face,  her  light  brown 
hair  arranged  in  smooth,  stiff  bandeaux,  and  the  color 
of  her  complexion,  all  indicated  a  sensible  woman  with- 
out charm,  but  also  without  weakness. 


Cousin  Bette.  449 

*'Your  mother,"  she  continued,  "would  gladly  be 
beside  her  disgraced  husband,  to  comfort  him  and  hide 
him  in  her  heart  from  blame.  She  has  arranged  a  room 
upstairs,  as  if  she  expected  to  find  him  some  day  and 
put  him  there." 

"  M}'  mother  is  sublime,"  answered  Hortense  ;  "  she 
has  been  sublime  through  ever}-  hour  of  ever}-  day  for 
the  last  twent^'-six  years ;  but  I  have  not  her  temper- 
ament. I  can't  help  it.  I  get  angry  sometimes  against 
myself ;  but  oh  !  Celestine,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
be  on  good  terms  with  infamy." 

"  Consider  my  father,"  said  Celestine,  tranquilly ;  "he 
is  on  the  very  road  b}-  which  your  father  perished.  My 
father  is  ten  years  younger  than  the  baron,  and  he  has 
business  habits,  it  is  true  ;  but  what  will  be  the  end  of 
him?  That  Madame  Marneffe  has  made  him  her  spaniel. 
She  controls  him,  his  money,  his  ideas,  and  nothing  will 
make  him  open  his  eyes.  I  tremble  lest  I  should  hear 
that  the  banns  are  published.  My  husband  thinks  of 
making  one  effort  to  prevent  the  marriage ;  for  he  re- 
gards it  as  a  dut}'  to  society,  to  famil}'  life,  to  bring 
that  woman  to  account.  Ah !  my  dear  Hortense,  souls 
like  Victorin's,  hearts  like  ours,  learn  too  late  to  know 
the  world  and  its  practices.  This  that  I  tell  you  is  a 
secret ;  I  confide  it  to  you,  for  you  are  concerned  in  it ; 
but  you  must  not  reveal  it,  by  word  or  gesture,  to  Lis- 
beth,  or  your  mother,  or  anybody,  for  —  " 

"Here's  Lisbeth !  "  exclaimed  Hortense.  "Well, 
cousin,  how  are  things  going  in  the  infernal  regions?" 

"  Badl}'  for  you,  m}'  dears.  Your  husband,  my  poor 
Hortense,  is  more  infatuated  than  ever  with  that  woman, 
who,  1  will  admit,  loves  him  madk.     Your  father,  dear 

29 


450  Cousin  Bette, 

Celestine,  is  royall}'  blind.  All  tbis^  however,  is  noth- 
ing ;  I  've  been  telling  you  this  for  months.  I  am  trul}^ 
thankful  I  have  never  been  tied  to  a  man  ;  they  are  all 
animals.  But  the  climax  has  come;  five  days  hence,  m}^ 
poor  dear,  you  and  Victorin  will  have  lost  3'our  father's 
property." 

"Are  the  l)anns  published?"  said  Celestine. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Bette.  "  I  have  just  been  pleading 
j^our  cause.  I  told  that  monster,  who  is  onl}'  taking  the 
leavings  of  others,  that  if  he  would  help  jow  out  of  your 
present  embarrassments  b}'  paying  off  the  mortgage  on 
your  house,  3'ou  would  receive  3'our  step-mother." 

Hortense  made  a  gesture  of  horror. 

"Victorin  will  consider  that,"  said  Celestine,  coldl}'. 

"What  do  3'ou  suppose  the  ma^'or  replied?"  re- 
sumed Lisbeth.  "  'I  wish  them  to  be  embarrassed,' 
he  said.  '  You  can't  break  a  horse  unless  you  keep 
him  hungiy  and  sleepless  and  without  sugar.'  Baron 
Hulot,  bad  as  he  is,  is  worth  two  of  Monsieur  Crevel. 
So,  my  dears,  you  ma^'  go  into  mourning  for  your  in- 
heritance. What  a  fortune  to  lose  !  Your  father,  Celes- 
tine, paid  three  millions  for  the  estate  of  Presles,  and 
lie  still  has  an  income  of  thirt}'  thousand  francs.  Ah  ! 
he  has  no  secrets  from  me.  He  talks  of  bu3dng  the 
hotel  Navarreins  in  the  rue  du  Bac.  Madame  MarnefFe 
herself  has  an  income  of  fort3'  thousand  francs.  Ah  I 
here  comes  our  guardian  angel,  your  mother ! "  she  criedy 
hearing  the  wheels  of  a  carriage. 

The  baroness  presently  joined  the  little  group  in  the 
garden.  At  fift3--five  3^ears  of  age,  worn  b3'  man3'  griefs, 
trembling  incessantly  as  if  with  ague,  Adeline,  though 
pale  and  wrinkled,  still  retained  her  fine  figure,  witli 


«** 


Cousin  Bette.  451 

its  magnificent  lines,  and  her  natural  dignity.  Per- 
sons on  seeing  her  said,  '*  She  must  have  been  very 
handsome !  "  Wasting  with  grief  at  not  knowing  her 
husband's  fate  and  being  unable  to  let  him  share  the 
comfort  which  the  family  were  about  to  enjoy,  she  was, 
to  an  observer,  a  tender  type  of  the  majest}-  of  ruins. 
As  gleam  after  gleam  of  hope  departed,  and  each  in- 
quiry proved  fruitless,  Adeline  sank  into  a  dark  depres- 
sion which  terrified  her  children.  Every  morning  she 
started  on  her  rounds  with  renewed  hope.  Once  an  old 
commissarj'-general,  a  man  Hulot  had  obliged,  declared 
that  he  had  seen  the  baron  in  a  box  at  the  Ambigu- 
Comique  with  a  woman  of  remarkable  beaut}'.  Adeline 
went  at  once  to  question  him.  The  functionary,  while 
declaring  that  he  certainly  did  see  his  old  friend,  and 
that  his  manner  to  the  woman  seemed  to  denote  an 
illicit  marriage,  also  stated  to  Madame  Hulot  that  the 
baron  left  the  theatre  before  the  close  of  the  play, 
evidently  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  him.  "  His  man- 
ner was  that  of  a  family  man,  and  his  dress  betrayed  a 
want  of  means,"  added  the  old  officer. 

"Well?"  exclaimed  the  three  women  when  Adeline 
returned. 

"  Monsieur  Hulot  is  in  Paris,"  said  Adeline,  "  there 's 
a  gleam  of  happiness  for  me  in  feeling  he  is  so  near." 

"He  doesn't  appear  to  have  reformed,"  remarked 
Lisbeth,  when  Adeline  had  ended  her  account.  "He 
has  evidentl}'  taken  up  with  some  little  workwoman. 
But  where  does  he  get  the  money?  I'll  bet  some  of 
his  former  mistresses  support  him,  Jenny  Cadine  or 
Josepha,  perhaps." 

The  nervous  tremblino;  of  Madame  Hulot's  head  in- 


452  Cousin  Bette. 

creased ;  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  ej'es  as  she 
raised  them  sadl}^  to  heaven. 

"  I  can  not  beheve  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor 
would  ftill  so  low  as  that,"  she  said. 

'^For  his  own  pleasure  there  is  nothing  he  would 
not  do,"  said  Lisbeth.  "  He  has  robbed  the  State  ;  he 
would  rob  a  friend,  murder  him,  perhaps." 

"Oh,  Lisbeth!"  cried  the  baroness,  "  keep  such 
thoughts  to  yourself." 

Just  then  Louise  came  toward  the  group  of  women, 
which  the  two  little  Hulots  and  little  \Yenceslas  had 
joined  to  see  if  the  pockets  of  their  grandmother  con- 
tained any  sugarplums. 

"  What  is  it,  Louise? "  said  Hortense. 

"  A  man  who  wants  Mademoiselle  Fischer." 

"  What  sort  of  man  ?  "  asked  Lisbeth. 

"  Mademoiselle,  he  is  in  rags,  and  covered  with 
horse-hair  like  a  mattress-maker ;  his  nose  is  red,  and 
he  smells  of  brand}-,  —  he  is  one  of  those  workmen 
who  only  work  half  the  week." 

This  unattractive  description  had  the  effect  of  send- 
ing Lisbeth  instantly  to  the  courtj-ard,  where  she  found 
the  man  smoking  a  pipe  whose  coloring  denoted  an 
adept  in  the  arts  of  tobacco. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  pere  Chardin?  "  she  said 
to  him.  ''It  was  agreed  that  3'ou  should  be  at  the 
hotel  Marneffe,  rue  Barbet-de-Jouy  on  the  first  Satur- 
day of  ever}^  month.  I  have  just  come  from  there,  after 
waiting  five  hours  for  3'ou." 

"  I  did  start  to  go  there,  my  good  and  charitable 
lady,"  answered  the  maker  of  mattresses.  "But  you 
see  there  was  a  little  game  on  hand  at  the  cafe  des 


Cousin  Bette.  453 

Savants,  rue  du  Co3ur-Yolant.  Every  one  has  his  pas- 
sion ;  mine  is  for  billiards.  Without  billiards  I  should 
do  well  enough,  for  —  mark  this  !  "  he  said,  fumbling  in 
the  pocket  of  his  tattered  trousers,  ' '  cafes  lead  to  wine, 
and  billiard-balls  to  brand}',  —  ruinous,  like  all  fine 
things,  through  their  accessories.  I  knew  m}'  orders  ; 
but  the  old  man  is  in  a  tight  place,  so  I  came  upon 
the  forbidden  ground.  If  the  hair  of  our  mattresses  were 
all  hair  one  could  sleep  on  it ;  but,  you  see,  it 's  mixed. 
God  is  not  for  everybody',  as  the}"  say  ;  he  has  his  pref- 
erences —  and  he  has  a  right  to  them.  Here 's  the 
letter  of  your  estimable  cousin  and  the  ver}'  good  friend 
of  a  mattress-maker.  That  is  in  the  line  of  his  political 
professions ;  "  and  pere  Chardin  endeavored  to  trace  a 
zigzag  in  the  atmosphere  with  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand. 

Lisbeth,  without  listening  to  him,  read  the  following 
two  lines :  — 

Dear  Cousin,  —  Be  my  banker.  Give  me  three  hmidred 
francs  to-day. 

Hector. 

"  Why  does  he  want  so  much -money?" 

"He?-"  said  pere  Chardin.  still  trying  to  draw  aerial 
arabesques  ;  "  well,  3'ou  see  my  son  is  back  from  Africa, 
through  Spain,  Bayonne,  and  —  no,  he  did  n't  steal  any- 
thing, he  never  does  steal,  he  's  a  sly  dog,  my  son,  — 
he  '11  return  all  he  borrows  ;  he 's  got  ideas  that  will 
carry  him  along  —  " 

"To  the  police  courts,"  said  Lisbeth.  "He  is  my 
uncle's  murderer.     I  sha'n't  forget  him." 

"  He  !  wh}-,  he  could  n't  kill  a  chicken,  nn'  good  lady." 

"  Here,  take  the  three  hundred  francs,"  said  Lisbeth, 


454     .  Cousin  Bette, 

drawing  fifteen  gold  pieces  from  her  purse.  "  Go  awa}', 
and  never  come  to  this  house  again." 

She  accompanied  the  father  of  the  late  Algerian  store- 
keeper to  the  outer  door  and  made  the  porter  take  a 
look  at  the  old  drunkard. 

"  Every  time  that  man  comes  here,  if  he  should  come, 
3'ou  are  not  to  let  him  in  and  3'ou  are  to  sa}-  I  am  out. 
If  he  asks  whether  Monsieur  Hulot,  junior,  or  Madame 
la  Baronne  Hulot  live  here,  saj'  that  you  don't  know 
such  persons." 

"  Very  well,  mademoiselle." 

"  You  will  lose  your  place  if  an}'  mistake  occurs,  even 
if  it  is  accidental,"  said  the  old  maid  in  the  porter's 
ear.  "  Cousin,"  she  said  to  Victorin  who  entered  the 
house  at  that  moment,  "  3'ou  are  threatened  with  a  great 
misfortune." 

''What  is  it?" 

"  Your  wife  is  to  have  Madame  Marneflfe  for  a  step- 
mother in  a  YQvy  few  days." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that." 

For  the  last  six  months  Lisbeth  had  paid  a  little 
stipend  to  her  old  friend  the  baron,  the  secret  of  whose 
abode  was  known  to  her ;  and  she  gloated  over  Ade- 
line's tears,  telling  her,  if  by  chance  she  found  her  ga}' 
and  hopeful,  "  We  may  expect  some  day  to  see  my  poor 
cousin's  name  in  the  police  reports."  But  in  this,  as  in 
her  preceding  efforts  for  revenge,  she  went  too  far.  She 
roused  Victorin's  caution.  He  determined  to  put  an 
end  to  this  sword  of  Damocles  perpetualh^  held  by  Lis- 
beth over  the  family  head,  and  to  the  influence  of  the 
female  devil  to  whom  his  mother  and  the  whole  famil}'' 
owed  their  sorrows.     The  Prince  de  Wissembourg,  who 


Cousin  Bette.  455 

knew  of  Madame  Marneffe's  conduct,  lent  his  aid  to 
the  purpose.  He  promised  Victorin^  as  the  President 
of  the  Council  of  State  can  promise,  that  the  police 
should  secreth'  assist  in  opening  Crevel's  eyes,  and  in 
saving  a  noble  propert}^  from  the  clutches  of  the  diabol- 
ical prostitute  to  whom,  as  he  declared,  he  would  never 
forgive  the  death  of  the  old  marshal,  nor  the  total  ruin 
and  disgrace  of  the  baron. 


456  Cousin  Bette. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

DEVILS   AND    ANGELS    HARNESSED   TO   THE    SAME    CAR. 

Bette's  words,  "He  gets  money  from  his  former  mis- 
tresses," kept  the  baroness  awake  all  night.  Like  per- 
sons incurably  ill  who  call  in  quacks,  like  others  in  the 
last  depths  of  Dantesque  despair,  like  drowning  men 
who  clutch  at  floating  sticks,  she  ended  by  believing  in 
a  depravity  the  mere  idea  of  which  had  scandalized 
her,  and  the  thought  came  into  her  mind  to  appeal  to 
one  of  those  odious  women.  The  next  morning,  with- 
out consulting  her  children,  without  a  word  to  any  one, 
she  went  to  the  house  of  Mademoiselle  Josepha  Mirah, 
now  prima  donna  of  the  ro^'al  academy  of  music,  in 
pursuit  of  a  hope  which  danced  before  her  mind  like  a 
will-o'-the-wisp. 

About  midday  the  maid  of  the  great  singer  brought 
her  the  card  of  the  Baronne  Hulot,  saying  that  the  lady 
was  waiting  at  the  door  to  know  if  Mademoiselle  would 
receive  her. 

*'  Is  the  salon  in  order? " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  Are  the  flowers  fresh?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  Tell  Jean  to  give  an  eye  all  round  and  see  that 
nothing's  amiss  before  he  ushers  the  lady  in,  and  to 
show  her  the  utmost  respect.     Then  come  and  dress 


Cousin   Bette.  457 

me,  for  I  mean  to  be  criishingiy  beautiful."  She  went 
to  the  psyche  and  looked  at  herself.  "  Now  to  array 
m3'self !  "  she  said.  "  Vice  must  be  under  arms  before 
A'irtue.  Poor  woman,  what  can  she  want  of  me?  I 
don't  quite  like  to  meet  'of  sorrow  the  august  victim  ;'  " 
and  she  sang  that  celebrated  air,  ending  it  as  her  maid 
re-entered  the  room. 

"Madame,"  said  the  woman,  "the  lady  trembles 
violentl}'." 

"  Offer  her  something,  —  orange-flower,  rum,  soup." 

'*  I  did,  madame,  but  she  refused  them  all ;  she  says 
it'is  only  a  little  infirmit}',  a  nervous  affection." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  In  the  large  salon." 

"Make  haste,  child.  Give  me  my  prettiest  slippers, 
and  that  morning-gown  Bijou  embroidered  ;  the  one 
with  the  ripples  of  lace.  Dress  my  hair  in  a  wav  to  as- 
tonish a  woman  just  the  opposite  of  me.  And  send 
word  to  the  lad}'  (for  she  's  a  great  lad}',  my  girl,  and 
something  better,  something  you  "11  never  be,  a  woman 
whose  prayers  will  get  souls  out  of  purgatory)  send  her 
word  that  I  was  in  bed,  that  I  sang  last  night,  but  that 
I  am  getting  up." 

The  baroness,  ushered  into  the  grand  salon  of  Jose- 
pha's  apartment,  did  not  observe  how  long  she  was  kept 
waiting,  though  it  was  really  more  than  half  an  hour. 
This  salon,  the  furniture  and  decorations  of  which  had 
already  been  changed  since  Josepha's  installation,  was 
now  draped  in  silks,  of  a  color  then  called  massaca^ 
shot  with  gold.  The  luxury-  which  great  lords  of  the 
olden  time  displayed  in  the  houses  of  their  mistresses, 
of  which  so  many  relics  remain  to  the  present  day,  tes- 


458  Cousin  Bette. 

tifying  to  the  "  follies  "  which  justified  their  name,  was 
here  shown  to  perfection  by  the  aid  of  modern  methods 
in  the  four  communicating  rooms,  held  at  a  delightful 
temperature  by  a  heating  apparatus  with  invisible  open- 
ings. The  baroness,  bewildered,  examined  the  works  of 
art  with  amazement.  She  saw  how  fortunes  were 
melted  in  the  pot  when  pleasure  and  vanity  lit  the  fires 
beneath  it.  The  woman  who  for  twenty-six  years  had 
lived  amid  the  barren  relics  of  imperial  luxmy,  whose 
eyes  were  accustomed  to  threadbare  carpets,  tarnished 
gilding,  faded  stuffs,  —  as  faded  and  worn  as  her  own 
heart,  —  now  realized  the  power  of  the  seductions  of  vice 
as  her  eyes  rested  on  its  results.  It  was  impossible  not 
to  envy  these  beautiful  things,  these  splendid  creations 
which  the  great  unknown  artists  who  make  Paris  what 
it  is,  —  the  centre  of  European  production,  —  had  all 
contributed.  Here,  the  perfection  of  the  unique  thing 
was  the  surprising  charm.  The  models  having  been 
destroyed,  the  groups,  the  figurines,  the  carvings  were 
original  and  could  never  be  reproduced.  This  is  the 
highest  reach  of  luxury  in  the  present  day.  To  possess 
things  that  are  not  vulgarized  by  two  thousand  opulent 
shopkeepers,  who  think  they  show  their  elegance  when 
the}^  display  the  costly  articles  which  they  buy  for  gold, 
is  the  sign  of  true  luxury,  the  luxury  of  the  modern 
great  lords,  the  ephemeral  stars  of  the  Parisian  firma- 
ment. As  the  baroness  examined  the  flower-baskets, 
decorated  in  the  style  called  Boule,  and  filled  with  rare 
exotics,  she  became,  as  it  were,  afraid  of  all  the  wealth 
the  room  contained.  Such  profusion  must,  she  thought, 
react  upon  the  person  who  lived  in  the  midst  of  it. 
Adeline  felt  that  Josepha  Mirah,  whose  portrait  painted 


Cousin   Bette.  459 

b}'  Joseph  Bridau  shone  from  the  adjoining  boudoir, 
was  a  woman  of  genius,  a  Malibran,  and  she  expected 
to  see  a  t3'pe  of  the  true  '^  Honne."  She  regretted  hav- 
ing come.  And  3'et  she  was  urged  onward  b}^  feelings 
so  powerful  and  so  natural,  bj-  a  sentiment,  a  self-devo- 
tion so  disinterested,  that  she  gathered  up  her  courage 
to  endure  the  interview.  Besides,  she  was  about  to  sat- 
isfy the  curiosit}'  which  beset  her  to  know  the  charm  b}'' 
which  this  class  of  women  extract  such  masses  of  metal 
from  the  miserlj*  strata  of  the  Parisian  gold-fields.  The 
baroness  looked  at  herself  in  a  mirror,  to  see  if  she 
were  out  of  place  in  the  midst  of  all  this  luxury ;  but 
her  velvet  robe  with  its  point-lace  collar  had  an  air  of 
dignity,  and  a  velvet  bonnet  of  the  same  color  as  the 
dress  became  her.  Feeling  that  she  was  still  regally 
imposing,  a  queen  in  adversit}',  the  thought  crossed 
her  mind  that  the  majest}'  of  sorrow  was  even  greater 
than  the  majest}'  of  talent. 

Three  or  four  doors  seemed  to  open  and  shut  and 
then  she  beheld  Josepha.  The  great  singer  was  like 
the  Judith  of  Allori,  a  picture  that  clings  to  the  memory 
of  ever}^  one  who  has  ever  noticed  it  close  to  the  door 
of  the  grand  sala  in  the  Pitti  Palace  ;  she  had  the  same 
proud  attitude,  the  same  grand  face,  the  same  black 
hair  twisted  round  her  head  without  adornment,  and  a 
3'ellow  robe  with  embroidered  flowers,  of  a  brocade  pre- 
cisel}'  like  that  in  which  the  nephew  of  Bronzino  draped 
his  great  conception  of  the  immortal  murderess. 

"  Madame  la  baronne,  I  am  confounded  b}'  the  honor 
3'ou  have  done  me  in  coming  here,"  said  the  prima  donna, 
determined  to  pla}'  her  part  with  dignit}'. 

She  drew  forward  an  armchair  for  the  baroness  and 


460  Cousin  Bette. 

took  a  folding-stool  for  herself.  Her  e^'e  detected  the 
vanished  beauty  of  the  woman  before  her,  and  she  was 
seized  with  pity  as  she  noticed  the  nervous  trembling 
which  Adeline's  present  emotion  rendered  almost  con- 
vulsive. She  read  at  a  glance  the  saintly  life  that  Hulot 
and  Crevel  had  sometimes  pictured  ;  and  not  only  did 
she  instantl}'  lose  all  idea  of  opposition  to  this  woman, 
but  she  humiliated  herself  in  spirit  before  a  grandeur 
she  was  able  to  comprehend.  The  noble  nature  of  the 
artist  admired  what  the  courtesan  might  ridicule. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  brought  here  bj'  a  sorrow  which 
leads  me  to  have  recourse  to  every  means  —  " 

Josepha's  gesture  made  the  baroness  aware  that  she 
had  tactlessl}'  wounded  one  from  whom  she  hoped  so 
much,  and  she  looked  at  the  singer.  That  supplicating 
glance  extinguished  the  flame  in  Josepha's  e3'es,  which 
began  to  smile.  The  little  scene  had  the  painful  elo- 
quence of  a  silent  duel  between  the  two  women. 

"It  is  now  two  years  and  a  half  since  Monsieur 
Hulot  left  his  famil}',  and  we  do  not  know  where  he  is, 
though  I  think  he  is  in  Paris,"  began  the  baroness,  in  a 
trembling  voice.  "  A  dream  has  given  me  an  idea,  ab- 
surd perhaps,  that  you  ma}'  have  interested  yourself  in 
his  behalf.  If  3'ou  could  put  me  in  the  wa}'  to  find  Mon- 
sieur Hulot  —  ah,  Mademoiselle  !  I  would  pray  God  for 
3'ou  to  the  end  of  nw  da3-s." 

Two  large  tears  rolled  from  the  singer's  eyes. 

"  Madame,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  deep  humilit}',  "I 
did  you  harm  when  I  did  not  know  3'ou ;  but  now  that 
I  have  the  happiness  of  seeing  in  3'ou  the  noblest  image 
of  virtue  on  this  earth,  believe  me,  I  understand  the 
nature   of  the   wrong   I   did,    and  I   repent  sincereh'. 


Cousin  Bette.  461 

Therefore,  rely  on  me  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  repair 
u. 

She  took  Madame  Hulot's  hand  and  kissed  it  respect- 
fully before  the  latter  could  prevent  her,  and  even  went 
so  far  as  to  humblj'  bend  her  knee.  Then  she  rose  with 
the  same  proud  air  with  which  she  stepped  upon  the 
stage  as  Mathilde,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Take  a  horse,"  she  said  to  the  footmau;,  ••  and  ride, 
full  speed,  to  that  little  Bijou  in  the  rue  Saint-Maur  du 
Temple  and  send  her  here ;  put  her  in  a  cab  and  pa}' 
the  coachman  double  fare  to  press  his  horses.  Don't 
lose  a  minute,  or  I  dismiss  3'ou.  Madame,"  she  con- 
tinued, returning  to  the  baroness  and  speaking  in  tones 
of  deep  respect,  "you  must  forgive  me.  As  soon  as 
the  Due  d'Herouville  became  my  protector  I  sent  the 
baron  back  to  you,  because  I  learned  that  he  was  ruining 
his  famil}'  for  my  sake.  Could  I  do  more  than  that? 
In  a  theatrical  career  a  protector  is  absolutely  necessar}' 
to  us  when  we  first  make  our  debut.  Our  salary  does 
not  cover  one  half  our  expenses  and  we  are  forced  to 
take  temporar}'  husbands.  I  did  not  care  for  Monsieur 
Hulot,  who  took  me  from  a  stupid  and  conceited  rich 
man,  old  Crevel,  who  would  certainly-  have  married 
me  —  " 

''  He  told  me  so,"  said  the  baroness,  interrupting  the 
singer. 

■■•AVell,  3'ou  see,  madame,  I  might  have  been  an 
honest  woman  to-day,  with  a  legal  husband —  " 

"You  have  many  excuses,  mademoiselle,"  said  the 
baroness;  "God  will  consider  them.  As  for  me,  far 
from  reproaching  3'ou,  I  have  come  here  to  contract 
a  debt  of  o'ratitude  toward  vou." 


462  Cousin   Bette. 

*' Madame,  I  did  provide  about  three  3^ears  ago  for 
Monsieur  Hulot." 

"  You!"  cried  the  baroness,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
' '  Ah !  what  would  I  not  do  for  you  ?  I  can  only 
pray  —  " 

"I  and  the  Due  d'Herouville,  —  a  man  of  noble 
heart,  a  true  gentleman,"  said  Josepha. 

She  related  the  establishment  in  business  and  the 
semi-marriage  of  Monsieur  Thoul. 

"  And  so,  mademoiselle,  thanks  to  you,  my  husband 
has  not  been  starved  and  wretched?" 

"  We  endeavored  to  prevent  it,  madame." 

"  Where  is  he  now?  " 

"  Monsieur  le  due  told  me  about  six  months  ago  that 
the  baron,  known  to  the  duke's  notary  under  the  name  of 
Thoul,  had  used  up  the  eight  thousand  francs  which  were 
paid  to  him  in  quarterly  instalments,"  answered  Jose- 
pha, "  Since  then  neither  I  nor  Monsieur  d'Herouville 
have  heard  anything  about  him.  Life  among  my  set  of 
people  is  so  bus}',  so  distracting,  that  I  have  had  no  time 
to  look  after  pere  Thoul.  It  so  happens  that  for  the 
last  six  months  Bijou,  my  embroiderer  and  his  —  what 
shall  I  say?" 

"  His  mistress,"  said  Madame  Hulot. 

"His  mistress,"  continued  Josepha,  "has  not  been 
here.  Mademoiselle  Ol3'mpe  ma}^  have  been  divorced ; 
I  should  n't  wonder,  —  divorce  is  not  infrequent  in  our 
circles." 

Josepha  rose,  looked  among  the  rare  plants  in  the 
windows,  and  gathered  a  lovely  bouquet  for  the  baron- 
ess, whose  expectations  in  regard  to  the  singer  were 
much  at  fault.     Like  tlie  respectable  middle-classes  who 


Cousin  Bette.  463 

believe  that  men  of  genius  are  monsters,  walking  about 
and  eating,  drinking,  and  speaking  unlike  other  men, 
so  the  baroness  expected  to  find  Josepha  the  fascinator.^ 
Josepha  the  prima  donna,  the  brilliant  courtesan.  In- 
stead of  that  she  found  a  calm  and  quiet  woman,  pos- 
sessing the  dignity  of  her  talent,  the  simplicity  of  an 
actress  who  knows  that  she  reigns  at  night,  and  better 
still,  one  who  paid  by  her  looks,  her  attitude  and  her  man- 
ners full  and  complete  homage  to  the  virtuous  woman, 
to  the  Mater  Dolorosa  of  the  sacred  hymn. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  footman,  returning  at  the  end 
of  half  an  hour,  "Bijou's  mother  is  coming  at  once; 
but  it  is  doubtful  about  Olympe.     She  is  married  —  " 

"  B}"  the  left  hand  ? '"  asked  Josepha. 

"No,  raadame,  reall}"  married.  She  is  at  the  head 
of  a  splendid  establishment ;  she  is  married  to  the  pro- 
prietor of  a  great  shop  on  the  boulevard  des  Italiens, 
and  has  left  her  own  place  to  her  mother  and  sisters. 
Her  name  is  Madame  Grenouville.  The  old  shop- 
keeper —  " 

"ACrevel?" 

"  Yes,  madame,"  said  the  footman;  "the  marriage 
contract  states  that  he  is  worth  thirt}^  thousand  francs 
a  year." 

"This  is  against  \o\\v  interests,  madame,"  said  the 
singer.  I  foresee  that  the  baron  is  no  longer  where  I 
settled  him." 

Ten  minutes  later  Madame  Bijou  was  shown  in.  Jose- 
pha, as  a  matter  of  precaution,  made  Madame  Hulot  go 
into  her  boudoir,  across  the  door  of  which  she  drew  the 
l)ortiere. 

' '  The  sight  of  you  would   fi-ighten   her/'    said   the 


464  Oonsm  Bette. 

singer  ;  "  she  would  not  let  out  anything  if  she  thought 
3'ou  were  interested  in  it.  I  will  confess  her.  Hide  in 
there  ;  30U  will  hear  all.  This  sort  of  thing  is  quite  com- 
mon among  theatrical  people,  —  Well,  mere  Bijou," 
said  Josepha  to  an  old  woman  wrapped  in  a  stuff  called 
"tartan,"  who  resembled  a  charwoman  out  for  a  Sun- 
day in  her  best  clothes,  "I  suppose  you  are  very 
happ3^ ;  3'our  daughter  is  in  luck  ?  " 

' '  Ho  !  happ3^ !  —  my  daughter  gives  me  a  hundred 
francs  a  month ;  she  drives  in  her  carriage  and  feeds 
off  silver ;  and  I  do  say  she  ought  to  have  put  me 
above  want.  To  have  to  toil  at  m3^  age !  —  is  that 
happy?" 

"  She  is  very  wrong  to  be  ungrateful,  for  she  owes  her 
beauty  to  3'ou,"  returned  Josepha.  "  But  wh3'didn't 
she  come  to  see  me  ?  It  was  I  who  put  her  above  want 
by  marrying  her  to  m3^  uncle." 

"Yes,  madame,  pere  Thoul.  But  he  is  so  very  old 
and  broken  —  " 

"  What  have  3'ou  done  with  him?  Is  he  still  living 
with  3^ou  ?  She  did  ver3'  wrong  to  leave  him,  —  he  is 
now  worth  millions." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  "  that 's 
what  we  alwa3's  told  her  when  she  behaved  so  badty 
to  him.  He  was  kindness  itself,  poor  old  fellow  !  Ah  ! 
did  n't  she  make  him  step  round !  Olympe  was  cor- 
rupted, madame." 

"By  whom?" 

"Well,  she  picked  up  —  saving  3'our  presence  —  a 
claqueur^  the  nephew  of  an  old  mattress-maker  in  the 
faubourg  Saint-Marceau,  —  a  do-nothing,  like  all  good- 
looking  fellows ;  the  pet  of  the  boulevard  du  Temple, 


Cousin   Bette.  465 

where  he  claps  the  new  pieces  and  looks  after  the  en- 
trees of  the  actresses,  as  he  says.  In  the  morning  he 
drinks  brand}' ;  he  loves  liquors  and  billiards  by  inher- 
itance. I  told  013'mpe  such  a  trade  as  that  was  n't  to 
be  relied  on." 

"  Unfortunateh'.  it  is  a  trade,"  said  Josepha. 

"Well,  she  lost  her  head  about  the  fellow,  who,  to 
tell  the  truth,  madame,  did  n't  keep  good  compan3^  Pie 
came  near  being  arrested  in  a  drinking  shop  among 
thieves  ;  but  Monsieur  Braulard,  the  head  of  the  claque, 
got  him  off.  The  rascal  wears  gold  ear-rings,  and  lives 
by  doing  nothing,  hanging  on  to  women  who  are  fools 
about  handsome  men.  He  squandered  the  money  pere 
Thoul  gave  Olympe.  The  business  went  wTong ;  all 
she  earned  went  for  billiards.  Besides  this,  the  scamp 
had  a  prett}'  sister,  who  followed  the  same  trade  as  the 
brother,  —  a  jade  in  the  Latin  quarter  —  " 

"  A  lorette  of  the  Chaamiere,"  said  Josepha. 

"  Yes,  just  so,  madame,"  said  Madame  Bijou.  "  So, 
Idarnore  —  he  calls  himself  Idamore,  though  his  name 
is  Chardin  —  thought  3'our  uncle  had  more  money  than 
he  said  he  had,  and  he  managed,  without  my  daughter 
knowing  it,  to  send  his  sister  Elodie  to  our  place  as 
workwoman.  Heavens  !  she  soon  turned  things  tops}'- 
turv}^  She  corrupted  the  poor  girls,  who  are  now  — 
saving  j'our  presence — brutalized,  and  she  carried  off 
old  pere  Thoul  for  herself  and  put  him  —  we  don't  know 
where  ;  which  was  very  inconvenient  for  us  on  account 
of  the  bills.  As  soon  as  Idamore  secured  the  old  man 
for  his  sister  he  deserted  Olympe  for  a  little  actress  at 
the  Funambules  ;  and  that  brought  about  my  daughter's 
marriage,  as  you  '11  see  —  " 

30 


466  Cousin  Bette. 

"Do  yoM  know  where  the  mattress-maker  lives?" 
asked  Joseph  a. 

' '  Old  Chardin  ?  lives  ?  He  does  n't  live  anywhere  ! 
He  is  drunk  at  six  in  the  morning ;  he  makes  one  mat- 
tress a  month,  and  spends  the  rest  of  his  time  in  low 
wine-shops,  pla3'ing  billiards.  His  son  Idamore  is  one 
of  those  fellows  who  is  bound  to  go  to  a  police  court, 
and  from  there  to  a  prison,  and  then  — " 

*'  To  the  gallej's,"  added  Josepha. 

"Ah!  I  see  madame  knows  all,"  said  mere  Bijou, 
smiling.  "If  n\y  daughter  had  onl}'  understood  that 
man,  she  —  she  would —  But,  as  3'ou  sa}',  she's  been 
luck}',  an3iiow ;  Monsieur  Grenouville  fell  enough  in 
love  to  marry  her  —  " 

"  How  did  the  marriage  come  about?" 

"  Through  Olympe's  despair.  When  she  found  she 
was  deserted  for  the  actress  (whom  she  pounded  to  a 
mummy — goodness  !  did  n't  she  belabor  her  !)  and  that 
she'd  lost  pere  Thoul,  who  adored  her,  she  talked  of 
renouncing  men.  About  that  time  Monsieur  Grenou- 
ville, who  bu3's  a  deal  of  us,  —  sometimes  two  hundred 
embroidered  China  crape  scarfs  ever}'  three  months,  — 
wanted  to  console  her ;  but  no,  —  she  would  n't  listen 
to  anything  witliout  the  church  and  the  ma^'or.  '  I 
mean  to  be  virtuous,'  she  kept  saying,  'or  I'll  die.' 
And  she  kept  her  word.  At  last  Monsieur  Grenouville 
agreed  to  marr}'  her  if  she  would  break  with  us,  and  we 
consented." 

"  For  a  consideration?"  said  the  shrewd  Josepha. 

"Yes,  madame;  ten  thousand  francs,  and  an  annu- 
ity for  -my  father,  who  is  too  old  to  work." 

"  I  begged  j^our  daughter  to  make  pere  Thoul  happy, 


Coiisin  Bette.  467 

and  she  has  flung  him  into  the  mud.  She  had  no  right 
to  do  it.  I  '11  never  interest  myself  in  anybody  again . 
That 's  the  result  of  doing  a  benevolent  deed.  Benev- 
olence is  only  good  for  something  when  it  is  a  specu- 
lation. Olympe  might  at  least  have  told  me  of  all  this 
juggler}'.  If  3'ou  find  out  for  me  where  pere  Thoul  is, 
within  a  fortnight,  I  '11  give  you  a  thousand  francs." 

"That'll  be  difficult,  my  dear  lady;  but  there's  a 
good  many  five-franc  pieces  in  a  thousand  francs,  and 
I  '11  do  my  best  to  earn  them." 
"  Adieu,  Madame  Bijou." 

When  Josepha  entered  the  boudoir  she  found  Ma- 
dame Hulot  in  a  dead  faint;  and  yet,  though  the  poor 
woman's  senses  were  gone,  the  nervous  trembling  still 
continued,  —  like  the  halves  of  an  adder  cut  in  two, 
which  still  writhe  and  quiver.  Strong  salts,  cold  water, 
and  all  the  ordinary  restoratives  soon  recalled  the  bar- 
oness to  life,  or,  it  were  truer  to  sa}',  to  a  sense  of  her 
misery. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  to  what  depths  he  has  fallen  !  " 
she  said,  recognizing  the  actress,  and  seeing  that  she 
was  alone  with  her. 

"  Take  courage,  madame,"  replied  Josepha,  who  was 
sitting  on  a  cushion  at  Madame  Hulot's  feet,  and  now 
kissed  her  hands  ;  "  we  shall  find  him  ;  and  if  he  is  in 
the  mire,  — well,  he  can  be  cleansed.  Believe  me,  when 
a  man  has  been  well  brouglit  up  his  restoration  is  only  a 
matter  of  clothes.  Let  me  repair  the  wrongs  I  have  done 
you ;  I  see  by  your  coming  here  how  deeply  3'ou  must 
be  attached  to  your  husband,  in  spite  of  m}^  conduct. 
Ah!  poor  man,  he  loves  women.  If  you  could  onl^' 
have  had  a  little  of  our  chique  you  might  have  kept 


468  Cousin  Bette. 

him  from  running  after  them  ;  you  would  have  been 
what  we  know  how  to  be,  —  (dl  women  in  one  to  a 
man.  Tiie  government  ought  to  create  a  school  for 
virtuous  wives  ;  but  governments  are  so  strait-laced,  — 
and  3^et  they  are  managed  by  the  very  men  we  manage  ! 
For  my  part,  I  pity  the  country-.  But  the  question  is 
to  help  3'ou  in  3'our  trouble,  not  to  make  fun  of  things. 
Well,  do  not  be  anxious,  madame ;  go  home  and  rest. 
I  will  return  the  baron  to  3'ou  as  lively  as  though  he 
were  thirty  years  old." 

"  Mademoiselle,  let  us  go  and  see  that  Madame 
Grenouville,  she  may  know  something  ;  perhaps  I  could 
find  Monsieur  Hulot  this  ver}'  day  and  rescue  him  at 
once  from  poverty  —  and  shame." 

"Madame,  how  can  I  express  the  gratitude  I  feel  for 
the  honor  3'ou  do  me.  I  respect  you  far  too  much  to 
allow  3"ou  to  be  seen  in  public  with  me.  This  is  not  a 
pretence  of  humiUty,  it  is  a  homage  which  I  render 
to  you.  Ah,  madame,  3'ou  make  me  regret  that  I  can- 
not follow  your  waj^  of  life,  in  spite' of  the  thorns  which 
lacerate  your  feet  and  hands !  but  it  cannot  be  helped 
—  I  belong  to  art  as  3'ou  belong  to  virtue." 

' '  Poor  girl !  "  said  the  baroness,  moved,  in  the  midst 
of  her  own  miser3^,  to  a  strange  feeling  of  commiserating 
sympath3\  "  I  will  pra3'  God  to  help  you,  for  3'ou  are 
the  victim  of  societ3'.  When  old  age  comes,  turn  to 
repentance ;  3^ou  will  be  forgiven  if  God  deigns  to  hear 
the  pra3^er  of —  " 

"  —  a  mart3a*,  madame,"  said  Josepha,  kissing  Ma- 
dame Hulot's  dress  respectful^. 

But  Adehne  took  the  singer's  hand,  drew  her 
towards  her  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.     Blush- 


Cousin  Bette.  469 

ing  with  pleasure,  Josepha  led  Madame  Hulot  to  her 
carriage  with  an  almost  servile  demeanor. 

"That's  some  charitable  lady,"  said  the  footman  to 
the  lady's  maid,  "  for  she  is  never  like  that  to  an^-body, 
not  even  to  her  dear  friend  Madame  Jenn}^  Cadine." 

"Wait  patiently  a  few  days,  madame,"  said  Josepha 
as  she  parted  from  Madame  Hulot,  ' '  and  3'ou  shall  see 
him,  or  I  will  denj'  the  (^od  of  my  fathers  —  and  that  is 
a  good  deal  for  a  Jewess  to  say." 

At  the  hour  when  the  baroness  made  her  visit  to 
Josepha,  an  old  woman  about  seventj'-five  years  of  age 
was  ushered  into  Victorin's  study,  having  used  the  ter- 
rible name  of  the  chief  of  police  to  obtain  access  to  the 
distinguished  lawj'er  and  deputy.  The  footman  an- 
nounced, "Madame  de  Saint-Esteve." 

"I  have  taken  one  of  ni}'  aliases,"  she  said,  seating 
herself. 

Victorin  shuddered  inwardl}',  so  to  speak,  on  seeing 
the  hideous  old  woman.  Though  richh'  dressed,  she 
appalled  him  by  the  signs  of  cold  wickedness  that  la}- 
on  her  flat,  wrinkled,  pallid,  and  muscular  face.  Marat, 
if  a  woman  and  of  her  age,  would  have  been  Hke  the 
Saint-Esteve,  a  living  image  of  the  Terror.  The  san- 
guinary appetites  of  a  tiger  gleamed  in  her  small  yel- 
low eyes.  The  flattened  nose,  with  the  nostrils  widened 
into  oval  cavities,  belching  the  smoke  of  hell,  suggested 
the  beak  of  a  bird  of  prey.  The  genius  of  intrigue  sat 
enthroned  on  the  low,  cruel  brow.  Straggling  hairs 
pushing  up  in  the  hollows  of  the  face  proclaimed  the 
masculine  instincts  of  her  nature.  Those  who  took  note 
of  this  woman  might  well  have  doubted  whether  painters 
bad  ever  truly  represented  the  face  of  Mephistopheles, 


470  Cousin  Bette. 

"  My  dear  monsieur,"  she  said  in  a  patronizing  tone, 
"  I  have  long  ceased  to  meddle  with  private  affairs,  and 
what  I  now  do  for  you  is  really  out  of  consideration  for 
my  dear  nephew,  whom  I  love  better  than  if  he  were 
m}'  own  son.  Now  the  prefect  of  police,  in  whose  ear 
the  president  of  the  Council  has  wiiispered  a  word  or 
two  about  3^our  wishes,  told  Monsieur  Chapuzot  that  the 
police  had  better  not  appear  in  an  affair  of  this  kind. 
So  they  have  given  carte  blanche  to  my  nephew,  the 
head  of  the  detective  force ;  but  my  nephew  only  acts 
for  the  Council,  and  must  not  compromise  himself." 

"  Then  3'ou  are  the  aunt  of  Vautrin?" 

"  You  are  right,  and  I  am  rather  proud  of  it,"  she  re- 
plied, "  for  he  is  m}'  own  pupil,  a  pupil  who  soon  made 
himself  a  master.  He  and  I  have  studied  your  affair, 
and  we  think  well  of  it.  Will  you  give  thirty  thousand 
francs  to  put  an  end  to  the  whole  affair?  You  needn't 
pay  till  the  thing  is  done." 

"  You  know  the  persons?  " 

"  No,  my  dear  monsieur,  I  await  j^our  instructions. 
All  we  know  is  what  they've  told  us, — that  an  old 
boob3^  has  got  into  the  hands  of  a  widow ;  that  the 
widow,  twent^'-nine  years  old,  has  thieved  so  well  that 
she  has  secured  an  income  of  fort}'  thousand  francs  out 
of  two  fathers  of  families  ;  that  she 's  now  on  the  point 
of  swallowing  up  eighty  thousand  a  year  more  by  mar- 
rying a  man  sixty-one  years  of  age  and  ruining  a  worthy 
family  ;  and  will  soon  no  doubt  get  rid  of  the  old  hus- 
band and  give  his  immense  property  to  the  child  of  some 
lover.     That 's  the  tale  as  I  heard  it." 

"  Quite  correct,"  said  Victorin.  "  My  father-in-law, 
Monsieur  Crevel  —  " 


Cousin  Bette.  471 

"  Ex-perfiiinei*  and  ma3or ;  3'es,  I  live  in  his  arion- 
dissement,  under  tiie  name  of  Madame  Nourrisson." 

"The  other  person  is  Madame  Marneffe." 

"  Don't  know  her,"  said  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve, 
"  but  in  three  days  I  shall  be  able  to  count  her  chemises." 

"  Can  3'ou  prevent  the  marriage?  " 

"  How  far  has  it  gone?  " 

"  The  banns  have  been  twice  published." 

"  We  ought  to  kidnap  the  woman.  It  is  now  Sun- 
day ;  that  leaves  only  three  days.  Of  course  they'll  be 
married  Wednesday,  —  no,  it 's  impossible  to  carrj-  her 
off  in  that  time.     But  we  can  kill  her  —  " 

Victorin  Hulot  started,  as  a  man  of  honor  would  at 
hearing  such  words  said  in  cold  blood. 

"  Kill  her  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"For  fortj"  3'ears,  monsieur,  we  have  stood  in  the 
shoes  of  destin3%"  she  said  with  dreadful  pride  ;  "we  do 
what  we  choose  in  Paris.  Man3'  a  famil3'  —  and  in  the 
faubourg  Saint-Germain,  too — has  told  me  its  secrets. 
I  have  made  man3'  marriages  ;  I  have  torn  up  man3^ 
wills  ;  I  have  saved  man3'  reputations.  I  hold,  penned 
up  there,"  she  continued,  tapping  her  forehead,  "  a  flock 
of  secrets  that  stand  me  in  thirtN"  thousand  francs  a 
3'ear ;  you  may  be  one  of  m3'  lambs,  if  3'ou  like.  A 
woman  of  m3'  kind  would  n't  be  what  I  am  if  she  talked 
about  her  means  of  action,  —  she  acts  ;  I  act.  All  that 
happens,  my  dear  sir,  will  be  accidental,  —  3'ou  will  not 
feel  the  slightest  remorse.  You  will  be  like  persons 
cured  by  somnambulists,  who  think  at  the  end  of  a 
month  that  nature  did  it  all." 

Victorin  was  in  a  cold  sweat.  The  sight  of  the  hang- 
man v;ould  have  moved  him  less  than  this  pretentious 


472  Oou8i7i  Bette. 

and  sententious  daughter  of  the  galleys ;  the  sight  of 
her  dress^  color  of  the  dregs  of  wine,  made  him  fancy 
she  was  swathed  in  blood. 

"  Madame,  I  shall  not  accept  the  help  of  your  expe- 
rience and  of  3'our  active  services  if  success  is  to  cost  a 
life,  or  if  it  involves  any  criminal  deed  w^hatsoever." 

"You  are  nothing  but  a  big  child,  monsieur,"  re- 
sponded Madame  de  Saint-Esteve.  "  You  wish  to  stay 
honorable  in  your  own  eyes,  and  3'et  3'ou  want  to  get  the 
better  of  3'our  enemy." 

Victorin  made  a  gesture  of  denial. 

'"Yes,"  she  replied,  "you  want  Madame  Marneffe 
to  drop  the  prej^  she  has  got  in  her  jaws.  How  can 
you  force  a  tiger  to  let  go  his  bit  of  flesh?  b}^  pass- 
ing 3^our  hand  down  his  back  and  saj'ing,  '  pussy, 
pussy '  ?  You  are  not  logical.  You  order  a  fight,  but 
you  don't  want  any  wounds.  Well,  I'll  make  yon  a 
present  of  the  innocence  3'ou  are  so  fond  of.  For  my 
part,  I  've  alwa^^s  seen  the  threads  of  hypocris}'  in  the 
garments  of  decencj'.  Some  day,  about  three  months 
hence,  a  poor  priest  will  come  and  ask  you  for  forty 
thousand  francs  for  a  pious  work,  say  a  convent  in  the 
Levant  or  in  a  desert.  If  3'ou  are  then  satisfied  with 
what  has  happened  give  him  the  mone}',  —  it  won't  be 
much,  considering  all  it  will  bring  you  in." 

She  rose  to  her  large  feet,  incased  in  satin  shoes,  with 
the  flesh  puffing  over  their  edges,  smiled  as  she  bowed 
to  the  law3'er  and  retired. 

"  The  devil  has  a  sister,"  said  Victorin,  rising. 

He  followed  the  horrible  creature,  who  seemed  evoked 
from  the  lairs  of  detective  inquisition  as  a  fiend  is  called 
up  by  the  wand  of  a  fairy  in  a  pantomine  through  the 


Cousin   Bette.  473 

trap-door  at  the  opera  house.  When  his  business  at  the 
Palais  was  over  for  the  da}',  Victorin  went  to  Monsieur 
Chapuzot,  the  head  of  a  department  at  the  prefecture 
of  police,  to  obtain  some  information  about  this  mys- 
terious woman.  Finding  the  chief  alone  in  his  oflice, 
Hulot  thanked  him  for  his  services. 

"You  sent  me,"  he  said,  "an  old  woman  who  may 
be  said  to  personify  Paris  in  its  criminal  aspect." 

Monsieur  Chapuzot  took  off  his  spectacles,  laid  them 
on  his  papers,  and  looked  at  the  lawyer  with  an  aston- 
ished air. 

"I  should  not  have  presumed  to  send  any  one,  no 
matter  whom,  without  giving  3-ou  due  notice,  or  without 
a  written  line  of  introduction,"  he  said. 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  Monsieur  le  prefet." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Chapuzot.  "  The  last  time 
the  Prince  de  Wissembourg  dined  with  the  minister  of 
the  Interior  he  saw  the  prefect,  and  spoke  to  him  of  3'our 
unfortunate  position,  and  asked  him  to  be  so  kind  as  to 
come  to  your  assistance.  Monsieur  le  prefet,  much  in- 
terested b}'  what  his  Excellencj'  told  him,  was  so  good 
as  to  consult  me  in  the  matter.  Ever  since  the  prefect 
took  the  reins  of  this  administration  (which  is  so  calum- 
niated and  yet  so  useful)  he  has  set  his  face  against  in- 
terfering in  family  affairs.  He  is  right  in  principle  and 
in  morality ;  practically  he  is  all  wrong.  The  police, 
during  the  fort^'-five  3'ears  that  I  have  been  in  it,  ren- 
dered immense  services  to  private  families  from  1799  to 
1815.  Since  1820  the  press  and  the  constitutional  gov- 
ernment have  totalh'  changed  the  conditions  of  its  ex- 
istence. Consequent!}'  m^'  advice,  when  the  prefect 
asked  it,  was  not  to  meddle  in  such  a  matter  as  yours, 


474  Cousin  Bette. 

and  Monsieur  le  prefet  was  good  enough  to  yield  to  my 
opinion.  The  chief  of  the  detective  police  received  in 
ni}'  presence  an  order  not  to  take  any  steps  in  the  mat- 
ter ;  if  he  has  taken  any,  I  shall  reprimand  him.  It 
would  be  almost  a  case  for  dismissal.  People  say  '  The 
police  will  do  this,  that,  or  the  other '  —  '  the  police  !  the 
police  ! '  But,  my  dear  sir,  the  Marechal  and  the  Coun- 
cil of  ministers  are  ignorant  of  what  the  police  really  is. 
None  but  the  police  can  understand  the  police.  The  old 
kings,  Napoleon,  and  Louis  XVIII.  did  understand 
theirs;  but  as  for  ours,  no  one  but  Fouche,  or  Mon- 
sieur Lenoir,  Monsieur  de  Sartines,  and  a  few  prefects, 
men  of  intelligence,  had  any  inkling  of  what  it  is.  Now- 
adays all  is  changed ;  we  are  hampered  and  cut  down. 
I  have  seen  man}'  family  misfortunes  which  we  could 
have  prevented  with  five  grains  of  interference.  We 
shall  be  regretted  by  the  ver}^  men  who  have  destroj'ed 
us  when  the^^  find  themselves,  as  you  are  now,  face  to 
face  with  moral  monstrosities  which  must  be  cleared 
away  just  as  we  clear  away  the  mud  in  the  streets.  In 
politics  the  police  is  supposed  to  prevent  crime  so  long 
as  it  concerns  the  public  weal ;  but  the  welfare  of  fami- 
lies is  another  matter,  the  family  is  sacred!  I  may  do 
all  I  can  to  discover  and  prevent  an  attempt  upon  the 
life  of  the  king ;  I  can  even  make  the  walls  of  houses 
transparent ;  but  put  my  claws  into  private  families  and 
meddle  with  private  interests  —  no,  not  so  long  as  I 
hold  my  oflfice,  for  I  am  afraid  —  " 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

' '  Of  the  press  !  Monsieur  the  deputy  of  the  Left 
centre." 

"  What  am  I  to  do?  "  resumed  Victorin  after  a  pause. 


Cousin  Bette.  475 

"  He)',  you  call  yourselves  the  representatives  of  the 
Family,"  said  the  chief,  "  act  accordingly ;  do  as  you 
think  you  ought  to  do ;  but  don't  ask  us  to  help  you, 
don't  make  the  police  the  tool  of  passions  and  personal 
interests." 

"  But  in  my  position  —  "  began  Hulot. 

"You  surel}'  don't  want  me  to  advise  you,  my  dear 
lawyer,  you  who  live  by  giving  legal  advice.  No,  no, 
3'ou  are  onl}'  joking  —  " 

Victorin  bowed  and  left  the  functionary,  not  observing 
the  slight  shrug  of  that  official's  shoulders  as  he  rose  to 
show  him  out.  "And  that  man  expects  to  be  a  states- 
man ! "  said  the  chief  to  himself,  as  he  resumed  his 
spectacles. 

Victorin  returned  home,  his  perplexities  on  his  back 
and  not  able  to  confide  them  to  any  one.  At  dinner  the 
baroness  announced  joyfully  that  in  a  month's  time  their 
father  would  return  to  share  their  comfort  and  end  his 
days  peacefully  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 

*'  I'd  give  my  whole  income  to  see  him  back,"  cried 
Lisbeth;  "but,  my  dear  Adeline.  I  do  beg  you  not  to 
count  on  such  happiness." 

"  Bette  is  right,"  said  Celestine  ;  "let  us  wait  till  it 
happens,  dear  mother," 

The  baroness,  all  heart  and  hope,  related  her  visit  to 
Josepha,  told  how  such  women  were  unhappy  in  their 
happiness,  and  spoke  of  Chardin,  the  father  of  the  store- 
keeper at  Oran,  to  prove  that  she  was  not  indulging  a 
false  hope. 

The  next  morning  by  seven  o'clock  Lisbeth  was  driving 
in  a  hackne3'-coach  along  the  quai  de  la  Tournelle.  At 
the  corner  of  the  rue  de  Poissy  she  stopped  the  carriage. 


476  Cousin  Bette. 

'*  Go  to  the  rue  des  Bernardins,"  she  said  to  the  driver, 
"  number  seven  ;  it  is  a  house  with  an  alley-wa}'',  and 
there 's  no  porter's  lodge.  Go  up  to  the  fourth  stor}^  and 
ring  the  bell  of  the  left-hand  door,  on  which  3'ou  will  see 
the  words,  '  Mademoiselle  Chardin,  mender  of  laces 
and  cashmeres.'  Ask  for  'the  chevalier.'  They  will 
reply,  '  He  is  out.'  You  will  then  sa}',  '  I  know  that, 
but  you  must  find  him,  for  his  maid  is  in  a  coach  on 
the  quay  and  wants  to  see  him.' " 

Twenty  minutes  later  an  old  man  who  seemed  about 
eighty  years  of  age,  with  snow-white  hair,  a  nose 
reddened  by  the  cold  in  a  pallid  face  which  was 
wrinkled  like  that  of  an  old  woman,  dragging  his  feet, 
covered  with  old  list  slippers,  as  he  walked  with  a  bent 
back,  and  dressed  in  a  shirt  of  suspicious  color  and 
a  threadbare  alpaca  overcoat,  without  decoration,  the 
sleeves  of  a  knitted  jacket  appearing  at  the  wrists,  came 
timidly  along  the  pavement,  looked  at  the  coach,  recog- 
nized Lisbeth,  and  stopped  before  her. 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  she  said  to  him,  "  what  a  state 
you  are  in  !  " 

"  Elodie  takes  everything  for  herself,"  said  Baron 
Hulot.     "  Those  Chardins  are  grasping  brutes." 

"  Do  you  want  to  return  home?" 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  said  the  old  man  ;  "  I  want  to  go  to 
America." 

"  Adeline  is  on  your  track." 

"Ah!  if  they  would  only  pay  my  debts,"  said  the 
baron,  suspicious!}'.     "  Samanon  is  after  me." 

"  We  have  not  yet  paid  off  the  old  notes ;  your  son 
still  owes  a  hundred  thousand  francs  on  them  —  " 

"Poor  boy!" 


Cousm  Bette.  477 

' '  And  3'oar  pension  won't  be  free  for  seven  or  eight 
months.  If  you  can  wait  till  then  1  have  two  thousand 
francs  —  " 

The  baron  held  out  his  hands  with  an  eager  gesture, 
frightful  to  see. 

"  Give  it  me,  Lisbeth  !  God  will  reward  you  !  Give 
it  me  !     I  know  where  to  go." 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  where,  j'ou  old  monster." 

' '  Yes,  I  can  wait  eight  months,  for  I  have  discovered 
a  little  angel,  a  good  child,  innocent,  not  old  enough  to 
be  depraved." 

"  You  will  get  into  the  police-courts,"  said  Lisbeth, 
expressing  her  inmost  wish. 

"She  lives  in  the  rue  de  Charonne,"  said  Hulot,  "a 
quarter  where  nothing  makes  a  scandal.  Nobod}'  will 
ever  find  me  there.  I  am  disguised.  Lisbeth,  as  pere 
Thorec  ;  I  'm  an  old  worker  in  ebony.  The  little  girl 
loves  me ;  and  I  sha'n't  have  the  fleece  plucked  off  my 
back  any  more." 

"No,  it's  done  alreadjM  "  said  Lisbeth,  with  a 
glance  at  the  alpaca  overcoat.  "  Shall  I  drive  you 
there,  cousin?" 

The  baron  got  into  the  coach,  abandoning  Made- 
moiselle Elodie  without  a  word  of  farewell,  as  we  throw 
aside  a  finished  novel. 

In  half  an  hour,  during  which  time  the  baron  talked 
of  nothing  but  the  little  Atala  Judici,  —  for  he  had 
reached  b}-  degrees  those  awful  passions  which  are 
the  destruction  of  old  men, — Bette  deposited  liim, 
supplied  with  the  two  thousand  francs,  at  the  door  of 
a  suspicious  and  dangerous-looking  house  in  the  rue 
de  Charonne,  faubourg  Saint  Antoine. 


478  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Good-bv.  cousin;  I'm  to  call  you  pere  Thorec,  am 
I  not?  Send  no  one  after  me  but  the  street-porters, 
and  take  them  always  from  different  stands." 

*' So  be  it  I  Oh!  I'm  so  happy!"  cried  the  baron, 
his  face  ilhiminated  with  the  joy  of  coming  happiness. 

*'  He  won't  be  found  there,  in  that  house,"  said  Lis- 
beth,  to  herself,  as  she  stopped  her  coach  on  the  boule- 
vard Beaumarchais,  where  she  took  an  omnibus  and 
returned  to  the  rue  Louis-le-Grand. 


Cy.r.-.   E^-1Ut,  4;^' 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

CffETEX  p&fd  2.  ^jiiiu  IS©  M9>  ^iMngtb  tffle  aesS  'faj,  Jns* 
CBit^&M:.  uhreTsr  lLe?»e'>f  i2i«<>  ier  jEb^ieb's  anus,  aiiifll  ftiet' 
wfejereas!* rt» "w&i tie  '.?**  — >'^.  lie::/:  .jarBiiittmwjiaBaw 

i^' Go0(i-9ioviiuag^  vm  cMlfenu"*  ami  CBsvdl, 
|K»^.    *'liaAwat  Ibi  Ibeonsunue^  I  Sasf  as^  Thwimgr  flit 

GtaadlpB*  I  wsudI  b-  HattfenHf;  fift 

Usa^iBS  mMdk  ^keofe  t&&  leannr  r:  "  - '         ^ 


H&JodiasdiaiiiDeresiislamf^T:  _       ?Mgft&wi^i 


^^  3f T  diSF  C^^iesSaBS.  I  wim  ^nr&  j^gn  aM  t&e  ^nuK 
tmni'  «f  MT^  bjoige  m  ^le  raiig^  des  SaoBaoi^^s ;  M  w^  d» 
t(«rr  w^  &ier^    Tooir  asBsB  aeeis  TsffiodoHiknn^    jya  I! 


480  Cousin   Bette. 

we  pretty  good  children  ?  We  must  be  good  if  we  want 
to  be  happ3'." 

"  Have  you  tried  it?"  asked  Bette. 

"  That  sarcasm,  my  dear  Lisbeth,  has  no  longer  any 
point  for  me.  I'm  about  to  put  an  end,  m}'  dear  chil- 
dren, to  the  false  position  which  I  have  held  for  so 
long ;  and  like  a  good  father  I  have  come  to  announce 
m}^  marriage  to  you  frankl3^" 

"  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  many,"  said  Victo- 
rin ;  "and  for  my  part,  I  give  you  back  the  promise 
you  made  when  you  gave  me  the  hand  of  my  dear 
Celestine." 

"  What  promise?"  demanded  Crevel. 

*'  Not  to  marry,"  replied  the  lawyer.  "  You  will  do 
me  the  justice  to  remember  that  I  never  asked  you  for 
it,  and  that  you  gave  it  vohmtaril}-,  in  spite  of  m}'  tell- 
ing you  at  the  time  that  you  ought  not  to  bind  yourself 
in  that  way." 

"Yes,  I  do  remember,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Cre- 
vel, abashed.  "And  now,  on  my  word  of  honor,  my 
dear  children,  if  you  will  live  happily  with  Madame 
Crevel  you  shall  never  repent  it.  Your  delicac}^  Vic- 
torin,  touches  me  deeply ;  no  one  is  ever  generous  to 
me  without  return.  Come,  welcome  your  mother-in- 
law  cordially  ;  be  present,  all  of  you,  at  the  marriage." 

"  You  have  not  yet  told  us  the  name  of  the  bride, 
father,"  said  Celestine. 

"  Why,  that's  the  key-note  of  the  comedy,"  replied 
Crevel.  "Don't  let's  play  at  hide-and-go-seek.  Lis- 
beth must  have  told  you  —  " 

"  My  dear  Monsieur  Crevel,"  interposed  Bette,  "  there 
are  names  which  must  not  be  uttered  in  this  house." 


Cousin    Bette.  481 

"Well,  then,  I  myself  tell  you  it  is  Madame  Mar- 
neffe." 

''  Monsieur  Crevel,"  said  the  law3'er,  sternl}',  "  neither 
I  nor  my  wife  can  be  present  at  that  marriage,  —  not 
from  motives  of  injured  self-interest,  for  I  have  spoken 
sincerel}'  on  that  point ;  but  from  other  considerations 
of  honor  and  delicacy,  which  you  will  surely  under- 
stand, though  I  cannot  express  them,  because  thej^ 
would  reopen  wounds  which  are  still  bleeding." 

The  baroness  made  a  sign  to  the  countess,  who  took 
her  child  in  her  arms,  saying,  "Come  aud  take  your 
bath,  Wenceslas.    Adieu,  Monsieur  Crevel." 

The  baroness  bowed  to  the  mayor  in  silence,  and  Cre- 
vel could  not  forbear  smiHng  as  he  noticed  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  child  thus  menaced  with  an  unexpected  bath. 

"You  are  marrjing,  monsieur,"  said  Victorin,  when 
he  and  his  wife  and  Crevel  and  Lisbeth  were  alone, 
"a  woman  who  has  ruined  m}^  father  and  coldl}' and 
deliberately  made  him  what  he  now  is,  — a  woman  wiio 
is  the  mistress  of  the  son-in-law,  after  being  that  of 
the  father,  —  who  has  caused  m}'  sister  deadl}' grief ; 
and  3'ou  expect  that  we  shall  sanction  your  madness  b}' 
our  presence.  I  pit}'  you  sincereh',  m}'  dear  Monsieur 
Crevel ;  3'Ou  have  no  sense  of  the  ties  of  family ;  you 
do  not  comprehend  the  union  of  honor  in  which  the 
members  of  a  family-  hokl  together.  One  cannot  argu.e 
(I  know  it  to  m}'  cost)  with  the  passions.  Men  in  the 
grasp  of  passion  are  as  deaf  as  the}'  are  blind.  Your 
daughter  Celestine  has  too  deep  a  sense  of  her  duty  to 
utter  one  word  of  blame  for  you  —  '* 

"  A  pretty  state  of  things  if  she  did,"  interposed  Cre- 
vel, trying  to  cut  short  the  lecture. 

31 


482  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Celestine  would  not  be  my  wife  if  she  reproached 
3011,"  continued  the  hiwyer.  "  But  as  for  me,  I  shall 
endeavor  to  stop  you  before  you  step  into  the  gulf,  — 
especially  after  showing  you  my  disinterestedness.  It 
is  not  3'our  fortune,  but  yourself,  that  I  am  thinking 
of.  And  to  make  m}^  sentiments  perfectly  clear  to  3'ou, 
I  will  add,  if  only  to  relieve  30ur  mind  in  framing  3'our 
marriage  contract,  that  m3^  financial  position  is  now 
such  that  we  have  nothing  further  to  desire." 

''  Thanks  to  me  I  "  exclaimed  Crevel,  whose  face  be- 
came purple. 

"Thanks  to  Celestine's  fortune,"  replied  the  law3'er. 
"And  if  3'ou  regret  having  given  3'our  daughter,  as  a 
dowry  coming  from  3'ou,  a  sum  which  is  less  than  half 
what  her  mother  left  her,  we  are  read3'  to  return  it." 

"Are  you  aware,  monsieur,"  said  Crevel,  assuming 
his  attitude,  "that  in  covering  Madame  Marnefl'e  with 
m3'  name  the  world  can  only  question  her  conduct  in 
the  character  of  Madame  Crevel  ?  " 

"That  ma3'  be  a  gentlemanl3'  sentiment,"  said  the 
lawyer;  "it  is  generous  as  to  matters  of  the  heart 
and  errors  of  passion  ;  but  I  know  of  no  name,  no  law, 
no  title,  which  can  cover  up  a  theft  of  three  hundred 
thousand  francs,  basel3^  stolen  from  m3'  father.  I  tell 
you  plainly,  my  dear  father-in-law,  that  your  future  wife 
is  unworth3^  of  3'ou ;  she  is  deceiving  3'ou,  and  she  is 
madly  in  love  with  m3^  brother-in-law  Steinbock, — she 
has  paid  his  debts." 

"I  paid  them." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  lawyer;  "I  am  glad  on  his 
account,  and  he  will  repay  3'ou  ;  but  I  can  tell  you  that 
he  is  loved  by  her,  —  greatly  loved  and  often  loved." 


Cousin   Bette.  483 

"  Loved  !"  exclaimed  Crevel,  wliose  face  proclaimed 
the  violent  commotion  taking  place  within  him.  "It  is 
base,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  petty  and  vnlgar  to  calumniate 
a  woman !  When  such  things  are  said,  monsieur,  they 
should  be  proved." 

"  I  will  give  3'ou  proofs." 

"  I  shall  expect  them." 

"The  da}''  after  to-morrow,  m}'  dear  Monsieur  Cre- 
vel, I  will  tell  you  the  da}',  hour,  and  moment  when 
and  where  I  can  show  3'ou  the  hori'ible  depravity  of 
3'our  future  wife." 

"  Ver}'  good,"  said  Crevel,  who  had  recovered  his 
coolness;  "I  shall  be  delighted  to  have  3'ou  do  so. 
Adieu,  Celestine  ;  cm  revoir.    Adieu,  Lisbeth." 

"Follow  him,  Lisbeth,"  said  Celestine  in  Bette's  ear. 

"  Well,  what  are  30U  off  in  such  a  huny  for?  "  cried 
Lisbeth,  overtaking  Crevel. 

"Ah!"  said  Crevel,  "my  son-in-law  is  getting  too 
uppish.  The  Palais  and  the  Chamber,  legal  trickery 
and  political  tricker}^  have  made  a  swaggering  fellow 
of  him.  Ha !  ha !  he  knows  ver}'  well  that  I  'm  to 
be  married  on  Wednesda3',  and  to-da3',  ISunda3',  ™y 
gentleman  declares  he  will  tell  me  three  da3's  hence  at 
what  date  he  can  prove  my  wife  is  unworth3'  of  me. 
That 's  prett}^  clever  of  him.  I  am  now  on  m3'  way  to 
sign  the  contract ;  come,  too,  Lisbeth,  come  !  They  '11 
never  know.  I  meant  to  arrange  it  so  as  to  give  Celes- 
tine forty  thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  but  Hulot  has  behaved 
in-  a  wa3'  to  alienate  m3'  heart  forever." 

"  Give  me  ten  minutes  ;  wait  for  me  in  3'our  carriage 
at  the  door.     I  '11  find  some  pretext  to  get  awa3\" 

"  Ver}'  good." 


484  Cousin  Bette. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  said  Lisbetli,  re-entering  the  salon, 
"  I  am  going  with  Crevel ;  tlie  contract  is  to  be  signed 
to-night,  and  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  its  terms.  It  will 
probably  be  my  last  visit  to  that  woman.  Your  father 
is  furious,"  she  added ;   "he  means  to  disinherit  you." 

"  His  vanit}'  won't  allow  that,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  He 
wanted  to  own  the  estate  of  Presles,  and  he  will  keep  it 
now  he  has  got  it.  I  know  him.  Even  if  he  should 
have  children,  Celestine  must  have  half  the  estate, 
and  the  law  does  not  allow  him  to  give  away  the 
whole  of  his  personal  fortune.  However,  these  ques- 
tions are  nothing  to  me ;  I  am  thinking  only  of  our 
honor.  Go,  cousin  !  "  he  said,  pressing  Lisbeth's  hand, 
"  go,  and  bring  back  word  about  the  settlements." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Lisbeth  and  Crevel  reached  the 
mansion  in  the  rue  Barbet,  where  Madame  Marneffe  was 
awaiting  with  moderate  impatience  the  result  of  the  visit 
which  she  had  ordered  Crevel  to  make.  In  the  long  run 
Valerie  had  fallen  a  prey  to  that  excessive  love  which 
once,  at  least,  grasps  the  heart  of  every  woman.  Wen- 
ceslas,  the  abortive  artist,  became  in  Madame  Mar- 
neffe's  hands,  so  perfect  a  lover  that  he  was  to  her  what 
she  had  been  to  Baron  Hulot.  She  was  holding  his 
slippers  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  was  clasped  in  his, 
and  her  head  rested  on  his  shoulder.  The  conversation 
between  them  after  Crevel' s  departure  on  his  errand 
was  like  those  literary  works  of  the  present  day  whose 
titlepages  bear  the  words,  "Reproduction  forbidden." 
The  poetic  charm  of  their  intimac}'  brought  to  the 
artist's  mind  and  so  to  his  lips  a  regret  which  he 
expressed  with  some  bitterness. 

"  Ahj  what  a  misfortune  that  I  am  married  !  "  he  said. 


Cousin  Bette.  485 

"  If  I  had  waited  as  Lisbeth  advised  I  could  have  mar- 
ried you  by  this  thus." 

"  A  man  must  be  a  Pole  before  he  can  wish  to  make 
a  wife  of  an  adoring  mistress,"  cried  Valerie.  "  Ex- 
change love  for  duty,  pleasure  for  monotony  !  " 

"  But  3'ou  are  so  capricious,"  replied  Steinbock.  "  Did 
I  not  overhear  3'ou  talking  with  Lisbeth  about  Baron 
Montez,  that  Brazilian?  " 

"  Will  you  help  me  to  get  rid  of  him?  "  said  Valerie. 

"  It  would  be  the  onlj-  way  to  keep  3'ou  from  seeing 
him,"  replied  the  ex-sculptor. 

"I  will  tell  you,  m}'  treasure,  —  for  I  tell  3'ou  all, 
don't  I  ?  —  that  I  did  once  think  of  letting  him  be  my 
husband.  Oh  !  the  promises  I  have  made  him  !  "  ("  long 
before  I  knew  3'ou,"  she  added,  replying  to  a  gesture  of 
Steinbock"s).  ''  Well,  those  promises  which  he  holds 
over  me  like  a  weapon  oblige  me  to  marr3'  almost  se- 
cretl3' ;  if  he  were  to  hear  that  I  mean  to  marr3'  Crevel 
he  is  capable  of — killing  me." 

'^  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  Steinbock,  with  a  contemptu- 
ous gesture  signif3'ing  that  an3'  such  danger  was  absurd 
for  a  woman  who  was  beloved  b3^  a  Pole. 

In  the  matter  of  courage  the  Poles  are  never  undulv 
boastful,  for  the  race  is  trulv  brave. 

'•'That  fool  of  a  Crevel  wants  to  have  a  ga3'  wedding, 
and  is  full  of  his  ideas  of  cheap  splendor  ;  it  puts  me  in 
a  position  I  don't  know  how  to  get  out  of." 

Valerie  could  not  admit  to  the  man  she  adored  that 
ever  since  Baron  Hulot  had  been  dismissed,  Henri  Mon- 
tez had  inherited  the  privilege  of  coming  to  her  house 
at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  that,  in  spite  of  her  clever- 
ness, she  had  not  yet  been  able  to  quarrel  with  the  Bra- 


486  Cousin  Bette. 

zilian,  who  in  all  her  attempts  invariably  took  the 
blame  upon  himself.  She  knew  too  well  the  man's  half- 
savage  nature  (which  resembled  Lisbeth's  in  some  as- 
pects) not  to  tremble  as  she  thought  of  this  South 
American  Othello.  As  Crevel's  carnage  rolled  into 
the  court3ard,  Steinbock  retreated  from  Valerie,  whose 
waist  he  was  holding,  and  picked  up  a  newspaper  in 
which  he  was  quite  absorbed  when  Crevel  and  Lisbeth 
entered  the  room.  VaL'rie  was  embroidering  with  great 
care  a  pair  of  slippers  for  her  future  husband. 

"  How  they  calumniate  her!  "  whispered  Lisbeth  to 
Crevel  in  the  doorway,  showing  him  the  little  scene. 
"  See  her  hair  ;  is  it  the  least  rumpled?  To  hear  Victo- 
rin  one  would  suppose  they  were  a  pair  of  turtle-doves 
in  a  nest." 

"  My  dear  Lisbeth,"  said  Crevel,  in  position,  "  to 
make  a  Lucretia  out  of  an  Aspasia  one  has  only  to  in- 
spire her  with  a  great  passion." 

''Yes,  and  I  always  told  3'ou,"  returned  Lisbeth, 
"  that  women  love  such  libertines  as  3'ou." 

"  She  would  be  very  ungrateful  if  she  did  not,"  said 
Crevel.  "  See  what  loads  of  mone}-  I  have  spent  here  ; 
no  one  knows  how  much  but  Grindot  and  I." 

So  saying  he  pointed  back  to  the  staircase.  In  the 
arrangement  of  the  house,  which  Crevel  regarded  as  his 
own,  Grindot  had  tried  to  out-do  Cleretti,  the  architect 
then  in  vogue,  to  whom  the  Due  d'Herouville  had  in- 
trusted the  decoration  of  Josepha's  apartments.  But 
Crevel,  incapable  of  comprehending  an}-  question  of  art, 
intended,  like  others  of  the  middle  class,  to  spend  a 
fixed  sum  agreed  upon  in  advance.  Restrained  by  this 
estimate,  Grindot  was  unable  to  realize  his  architectu- 


Cousiyi  Bette.  487 

ral  dream.  The  difference  between  Josepha's  mansion 
and  JNIadame  Marneffe's  was  exacth'  that  which  hes 
between  uniqueness  and  vulgarity.  AH  that  was  most 
achnired  in  Josepha's  house  could  be  seen  nowhere  else  ; 
whereas  the  splendors  Crevel  had  bestowed  on  Madame 
Marneffe's  might  be  bought  anywhere.  These  two  dis- 
tinct forms  of  hixury  are  separated  b^'  the  river  of  mil- 
lions. A  unique  mirror  costs  six  thousand  francs ;  the 
mirror  invented  by  manufacturers  who  turn  out  scores 
of  them  can  be  had  for  five  hundred.  A  chandelier  l)y 
Boule,  if  known  to  be  authentic,  brings  at  public  auction 
three  thousand  francs  ;  the  \ev\  same  thing,  if  cast,  can 
be  made  for  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  ;  the  one  is  to 
archteology  what  a  picture  by  Raphael  is  to  art,  the  other 
is  a  mere  copy.  The  Crevel-Marneffe  mansion  was  there- 
fore a  magnificent  specimen  of  ignorant  luxur\',  while 
Josepha's  was  a  fine  model  of  an  artistic  dwelling. 

"  War  is  proclaimed,"  said  Crevel,  going  up  to  his 
future  wife. 

Madame  INFarneffe  rang  the  bell. 

"  Go  and  fetch  Monsieur  Berthier,"  she  said  to  the 
footman,  "  and  don't  come  back  without  him.  If  you 
had  succeeded,  my  dear  old  man,"  she  said  to  Crevel, 
twining  her  arms  about  him,  "you  would  have  delayed 
our  happiness ;  we  should  have  been  obliged  to  have  a 
great  wedding ;  but  when  a  whole  famih'  opposes  the 
marriage,  decenc}'  requires  that  it  shall  take  place  quieth', 
—  especialh'  when  the  bride  is  a  widow." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  determined  to  display  a  lux- 
my  a  la  Louis  XIV.,"  said  Crevel,  who  for  some  time 
past  had  been  thinking  the  eighteenth  centurv  rather 
petty.     "  I  have  ordered  new  carriages;  there's  a  car- 


488  Consin   Bette. 

riage  for  me,  and  a  carriage  for  my  wife,  two  pretty 
coupes,  a  caleche,  and  a  state-coach  with  a  box-seat 
wliich  shakes  hke  Madame  Hulot." 

'^ '  I  am  determined' !  — is  that  a  way  to  speak?  So 
3'ou  don't  want  to  be  my  lamb  any  more?  No,  no,  my 
precious,  3'ou  '11  do  as  I  sa}^  We  will  sign  the  marriage 
contract  quietly  by  ourselves  to-night ;  then  on  Wed- 
nesday we  will  be  married  legally  in  due  form,  and  go 
on  foot  and  plainl}^  dressed  to  the  church  and  have  only 
a  low  mass.  The  witnesses  can  be  Stidmann,  Steinbock, 
Vignon,  and  Massol,  all  clever  fellows  who  can  happen 
into  the  mayor's  office  as  if  by  accident ;  afterwards 
the}'  must  sacrifice  themselves  so  far  as  to  hear  mass  in 
church.  Your  colleague  can  marr}"  us,  for  once  in  a 
way,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  mass  is  said  at 
ten ;  and  we  can  be  home  here  to  breakfast  b}'  half-past 
eleven.  I  have  promised  a  number  of  guests  that  the 
feast  shall  last  all  da}'.  We  shall  have  Bixiou,  your  old 
comrade  de  Birotterie,  du  Tillet,  Loustcau,  Vernisset, 
Leon  de  Lora,  the  flower  of  French  wit,  who  won't  know 
that  we  have  just  been  married  ;  we  '11  mystify  them  all, 
and  get  them  a  trifle  drunk.  Lisbeth  is  coming  and 
Bixiou  is  to  make  her  some  proposals  —  to  take  the 
starch  out  of  her." 

For  two  hours  Madame  Marneffe  ran  on,  chattering 
nonsense  which  made  Crevel  come  to  the  following  wise 
conclusion:  "  How  is  it  possible,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  that  such  a  gay  and  happy  creature  should  be  de- 
praved?    Giddy?  well,  yes,  but  wicked  —  never!" 

"What  did  your  children  say  about  me?"  asked 
Valerie,  when  she  was  holding  Crevel  close  to  her  on  the 
sofa,  —  "all  sorts  of  horrors  ?  " 


Cousin   Bette.  489 

"They  declare,"  he  repUed,  "  that  3'ou  love  Wences- 
las  crirainally  —  3'oii !  virtue  itself!  " 

"  Love  him?  I  should  think  I  did  love  him,  my  little 
Wenceslas,"  she  cried,  calhiig  the  artist  to  her  and 
taking  his  head  between  her  hands  and  kissing  his  brow. 
"  Poor  bo}',  without  friends,  without  fortune,  deserted 
b}^  a  giraffe  with  carrot}'  hair  !  Wenceslas  is  my  poet ; 
I  love  him  before  all  the  world  as  I  would  my  own  child. 
Those  virtuous  women,  they  imagine  evil  everywhere 
and  in  ever3'thing.  Can't  they  keep  quiet  without 
making  mischief  for  a  man?  As  for  me,  I'm  a  spoilt 
child,  and  nothing  is  ever  refused  to  me.  Sugarplums 
have  ceased  to  give  me  an}-  emotion.  Poor  women  !  I 
pity  them.    Which  of  them  said  that  of  me  ?  " 

"It  was  Victorin." 

"  Hey  !  and  win'  did  not  you  shut  his  mouth,  the 
pettifogging  parrot !  with  those  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  of  his  mamma's.^" 

"  Adehne  had  left  the  room,"  said  Lisbeth. 

"  Let  them  take  care,  Lisbeth,"  said  Madame  JNIar- 
neffe,  frowning.  "Either  the}'  must  receive  me  in  a 
proper  spirit,  and  visit  me  as  their  step-mother,  all  of 
them!  or  —  I'll  land  them  lower  than  the  baron,  and 
you  ma}'  tell  them  so  from  me.  I  '11  turn  wicked  in  the 
end.  On  my  word  of  honor,  I  believe  that  Evil  is  the 
scythe  w^hich  brings  in  the  harvest  of  good." 

At  three  o'clock  the  notary  Berthier,  successor  to 
Cardot,  read  the  marriage  contract,  —  after  a  previous 
short  conference  with  Crevel ;  for  certain  articles  de- 
pended on  the  manner  in  which  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Hulot,  junior,  received  their  father's  invitation.  Crevel 
gave  to  his  future  wife  the  following  fortune  :     1.  Forty 


490  Cousin   Bette. 

thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  secured  in  a  designated  manner. 

2.  The  house  in  the  rue  Barbet  and  all  that  it  contained. 

3.  Three  millions  in  money.  Over  and  above  these 
settlements,  he  gave  his  wife  all  the  donations  that  the 
law  allowed ;  released  her  from  the  necessity-  of  making- 
inventories  ;  and  provided  that  in  case  either  part}'  died 
without  children,  the  whole  estate,  real  and  personal, 
was  to  go  to  the  survivor.  This  contract  reduced 
Crevel's  own  fortune  to  two  million  of  francs.  If  he 
had  children  b}'  his  new  wife,  Celestine's  inheritance 
was  cut  down  to  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  —  about 
the  ninth  part  of  his  actual  property. 

Lisbeth  returned  to  dinner  in  the  rue  Louis-le-Grand 
with  despair  written  on  her  face.  She  explained  and 
discussed  the  marriage  contract,  and  found  Celestine  as 
indifferent  as  Victorin  to  the  money  aspects  of  the  affair. 

"  You  have  irritated  your  father,  m^'  dears.  Madame 
Marneffe  has  sworn  that  you  shall  receive  her  as  his 
wife,  and  visit  her  in  her  own  house." 

"  Never  !  "  said  Hulot. 

"Never!  "  said  Celestine. 

*' Never!"  cried  Hortense. 

Lisbeth  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  trample  the  pride 
of  these  Hulots  underfoot. 

"Madame  Marneffe  seems  to  have  some  weapon 
against  us,"  she  replied;  "1  don't  know  what  it  is, 
but  I  mean  to  find  out,  —  she  alluded  vaguely  to  some 
story  about  two  hundred  thousand  francs  which  con- 
cerns Adeline  — " 

Madame  Ilulot  fell  back  on  the  sofa  and  went  into 
convulsions. 

"  Go,  go  to  her,  my  children  !  "  she  cried.    "  Receive 


Cousm   Bette.  491 

that  woman  I  Monsieur  Crevel  is  an  infamous  wi-etch  I 
he  deserves  death  —  Yes,  obey  that  woman  —  ah  1  he 
is  a  monster  —  she  knoics  allJ" 

After  a  few  more  broken  phrases  mingled  with  tears, 
Madame  Hulot  found  strength  to  go  upstairs  supported 
b}'  Hortense  and  Celestine. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean?  "  cried  Lisbeth,  left  alone 
with  Victorin. 

The  lawyer  stood  rooted  to  the  ground  in  such  amaze- 
ment that  he  did  not  even  hear  the  words. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Victorin?  " 

"  I  am  horror-struck,"  said  the  lawyer,  whose  face 
became  threatening.  "Evil  to  those  who  dare  attack 
my  mother;  I  shall  have  no  scruples  henceforth.  I 
would  crush  that  woman  as  I  would  a  viper,  if  the 
means  came  in  my  way  —  She,  she  to  attack  my 
mother's  honor !  " 

"She  said  —  but  don't  repeat  this,  dear  Victorin  — 
that  she  would  land  the  whole  faniih'  lower  than  your 
father.  She  reproached  Crevel  openly  for  not  shutting 
your  mouth  with  this  secret  which  seems  so  terrifying 
to  Adeline." 

Hortense  now  sent  down  a  request  for  a  doctor,  as 
Madame  Hulot  was  growing  worse.  He  ordered  opium, 
and  Adeline  soon  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  ;  but  the  rest  of 
the  famih'  remained  in  a  state  bordering  on  terror.  The 
next  da}'  the  lawyer  went  early  to  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
and  as  he  passed  the  [)refectiu'e  of  police  he  requested 
Vautrin,  the  head  of  the  detective  force,  to  send  him 
Madame  de  Saint-Esteve. 

"We  are  forbidden  to  interfere  in  your  affair,  mon- 
sieur ;  but  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve  has  a  business,  —  she 


492  Cousiyi  Bette. 

can  call  on  3'ou  respecting  that,"  said  the  celebrated 
officer. 

When  he  reached  home  the  poor  j'oung  man  heard 
that  his  mother's  reason  was  in  danger.  Doctor  Bian- 
chon,  Doctor  Larabit  and  Professor  Angard,  meeting  in 
consultation,  had  just  decided  to  employ  heroic  reme- 
dies to  drive  the  blood  from  her  head.  As  Victorin 
was  listening  to  Bianchon,  who  was  explaining  why  he 
had  hopes  that  the  crisis  could  be  controlled  though  his 
associates  despaired  of  it,  the  footman  annouced  Ma- 
dame de  Saint-Esteve.  Victorin  left  Bianchon  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  and  ran  down  to  his  own  apart- 
ments with  the  headlong  rapiditj'  of  an  insane  man. 

"  Can  there  be  any  hereditary  tendencies  to  mad- 
ness in  tlie  fLimily?"  thought  Bianchon,  turning  to  his 
colleagues. 

The  doctors  went  away,  leaving  one  of  their  pupils  to 
watch  the  case. 

"A  lifetime  of  virtue !  "  were  the  only  words  that 
Madame  Hulot  said  after  the  blow  had  fallen.  Lisbeth 
never  left  Adeline's  bedside ;  she  sat  up  all  night,  and 
won  the  admiration  of  the  two  young  women  by  her 
devotion. 

"Well!  m}^  dear  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve,  how  is 
our  matter  coming  on?"  said  Victorin,  ushering  the  hor- 
rible old  woman  into  his  study,  and  carefullj^  closing 
the  doors. 

"  Well !  my  dear  friend,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him 
with  an  eye  that  was  coldly  ironical,  "  have  you  made 
your  little  reflections  ?  " 

"  Have  you  done  anything?  " 

"  Will  you  give  fift}^  thousand  francs?" 


Cousin  Btitc.  493 

"Yes,"  said  Hiilot,  "for  the  thing  must  be  done. 
Tliis  woman,  by  a  single  word,  has  put  my  mother's 
life  and  reason  in  danger  —  and  so,  go  on." 

"  We  have  gone  on,"  replied  the  old    woman. 

"  AVell?"  said  Victorin,  convulsively. 

"  You  won't  refuse  to  pa}'  costs?  " 

"  On  the  contrary." 

"  The  costs  alread}'  amount  to  twenty-three  thou- 
sand francs." 

Hulot  looked  at  the  old  woman  with  a  bewildered  air. 

"  Ha!  it  can't  be  possible  that  3'ou're  a  simpleton, — 
3'ou,  one  of  the  lights  at  the  Palais,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  For  that  sum  of  money  we  have  bought  the  conscience 
of  a  waiting-woman  and  a  picture  b}'  Raphael.  I  don't 
call  that  dear." 

Hulot  continued  to  look  at  her  stupidl}'  with  his  e3'es 
wide  open. 

"  Well,"  resumed  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve,  "  in  plain 
words,  we  have  bought  Mademoiselle  Reine  Tousard, 
Madame  Marneffe's  maid,  who  possesses  all  her  se- 
crets —  " 

"  I  understand." 

"  If  3'ou  mean  to  be  niggardty,  say  so  at  once." 

"I  shall  pa3^  as  I  agreed,"  he  answered.  "Go  on. 
M3'  mother  said  such  women  deserved  the  worst  pun- 
ishment." 

"  They  don't  break  people  on  the  wheel  nowada3's." 

"  You  are  certain  of  success?" 

"Trust  me  for  that,"  answered  the  woman.  "Your 
vengeance  is  already  stirring."  She  looked  at  the  time- 
piece ;  it  was  six  o'clock.  "  Your  vengeance,"  she  con- 
tinued, "is  dressing  itself  at  this  moment;  the  dinner 


494  Cousin   Bette. 

at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale  is  cooking,  the  horses  of  the 
carriages  are  champing  their  bits,  my  irons  are  getting 
hot.  Ha  !  I  know  3'our  Madame  Marneffe  by  heart.  All 
is  ready.  The  little  pills  are  in  the  trap ;  I  '11  tell  you 
to-morrow  whether  the  mouse  has  poisoned  herself.  I 
think  she  will.     Adieu,  ni}'  son." 

"Adieu,  madame." 

"Do  you  understand  EngHsh?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  3'ou  ever  seen  Macbeth  played  in  that  lan- 
guage? " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  my  son,  '  all  hail !  thou  shalt  be  king  here- 
after/ "  said  the  horrible  old  witch  foreseen  by  Shaks- 
peare,  and  seemingly  familiar  with  him.  She  left  Hulot, 
still  bewildered,  in  the  doorway  of  his  apartment. 
"  Don't  forget  that  the  case  comes  on  to-morrow,"  she 
said,  courteousl}' ;  for  she  saw  two  persons  near  the 
door,  and  wished  them  to  think  her  a  Comtesse 
Pimbeche, 

"  What  cool  audacity  !  "  thought  Hulot,  as  he  bowed 
to  his  pretended  client. 


Cousin   Bette,  495 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

A    DINNER-PARTY    OF    LORETTES. 

The  Baron  Montez  de  Montejaiios  was  a  lion,  but  an 
unexplained  lion.  The  Paris  of  fashion,  of  the  turf, 
and  of  the  lorettes  admired  the  ineffable  waistcoats  of 
this  foreign  lord,  his  irreproachably  varnished  boots,  his 
thorough-bred  horses,  his  carriage  driven  by  negroes 
vfho  were  docile  and  well  trained.  The  baron's  fortune 
was  known  ;  he  had  a  credit  of  seven  hundred  thousand 
francs  with  his  banker,  du  Tillet ;  3'et  he  was  never 
seen  except  alone.  If  he  went  to  the  first  represen- 
tation of  some  play  he  never  took  but  one  stall.  He 
frequented  no  salon  ;  he  had  never  offered  his  arm  to 
a  lorette  ;  his  name  was  not  connected  wdth  that  of  any 
pretty  woman  in  society.  His  sole  pastime  was  pla}*- 
ing  whist  at  the  Jocke}'  Club.  Gossips  were  reduced 
to  calumniating  his  morals,  or,  what  seemed  infinitely 
more  comical,  his  person  ;  the}'  called  him  Combabus. 
Bixiou,  Leon  de  Lora,  Lousteau,  Florine,  Mademoiselle 
Heloise  Brisetout,  and  Nathan,  supping  one  evening 
with  the  illustrious  Carabine  and  several  other  lions  and 
lionesses,  invented  this  extremely  burlesque  explana- 
tion :  Massol  in  his  capacity'  as  councillor  of  state, 
Claude  Vignon  as  a  former  Greek  professor,  had  related 
to  the  ignorant  lorettes  the  famous  anecdote  handed 
down  in  Rollin's  Ancient   Histor}-  concerning  Comba- 


496  Cousin  Bette. 

bus,  that  voluntary  Abelard,  who  was  charged  with  the 
duty  of  looking  after  the  wife  of  a  king  of  Assyria,  Per- 
sia, Bactriana,  Mesopotamia,  and  other  regions  named 
in  the  particular  geograph}-  of  old  Professor  du  Bocage, 
the  successor  of  D'Anville,  who,  by  the  by,  created  the 
East.  This  nickname,  which  kept  the  lorettes  laugh- 
ing for  some  time,  became  the  subject  of  many  jokes 
too  vivacious  to  be  repeated  here,  lest  the  Academy- 
should  refuse  us  the  Montyon  prize. 

Now,  on  the  morning  of  the  ver^'  da}"  when  Madame 
de  Saint-Esteve  prophesied  success  to  Victorin  Ilulot, 
Carabine,  or  rather  Mademoiselle  Seraphine  Sinet,  — 
who  was  to  the  banker  du  Tillet  what  Josepha  IVIirah 
was  to  the  Due  d'Herouville,  —  said  to  du  Tillet :  — 

"If  3'ou  were  a  good  fellow,  3'ou  would  give  me  a 
dinner  at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale  and  invite  Combabus. 
We  want  to  find  out  whether  or  no  he  has  a  mistress. 
I  have  bet  he  has,  and  I  want  to  win." 

"  He  is  still  at  the  Hotel  de  Princes,"  answered  du 
Tillet.  "  I  '11  go  and  find  him.  We  will  have  some  fun. 
Get  all  our  fellows,  —  Bixiou,  Lora,  in  short,  the  whole 
crowd." 

At  half-past  seven  that  evening,  in  the  handsomest 
room  of  the  ftimous  establishment  where  all  Europe  has 
dined,  a  table  was  laid  out  with  the  magnificent  silver 
service  reserved  for  dinners  where  vanit}"  paid  the  bill 
in  bank-notes.  Floods  of  light  rippled  and  danced  on 
its  chiselled  edges.  Servants,  who  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  diplomatists  were  it  not  for  their  age, 
were  serious  and  calm,  like  men  who  know  they  are 
overpaid. 

Five  persons  had  arrived  and  were  awaiting   nine 


Coujiti  Bette.  497 

more.  First  came  Bixiou,  the  salt  of  all  intellectual 
cookerj',  still  going  on  in  1843  wilh  a  battery  of  witti- 
cisms ever  new,  —  a  phenomenon  as  rare  in  Paris  as 
virtue  itself.  Then  Leon  de  Lora,  the  greatest  land- 
scape and  sea  painter  living,  w^ho  maintained  himself 
above  all  rivals  b}'  never  falling  below  his  early  prom- 
ise. The  lorettes  were  unable  to  do  without  these  two 
princes  of  wit  and  humor.  Not  a  supper,  not  a  din- 
ner, not  a  pleasure  party  of  anv  kind,  could  go  on 
without  them.  Scraphine  Sinet,  called  Carabine,  came, 
in  her  capacit}'  of  mistress  to  the  ampliitr>on,  among 
the  first  arrivals,  displaying  under  the  dazzling  flood  of 
light  a  pair  of  unrivalled  shoulders,  a  throat  turned  as 
if  by  a  sculptor,  without  a  crease,  a  piquant  face,  and 
a  dress  of  brocaded  satin,  blue  upon  blue,  trimmed  with 
English  lace  in  sufficient  quantit}'  to  have  kept  a  whole 
village  from  starvation  for  a  month.  Pretty  Jenny  Ca- 
dine,  who  did  not  play  that  night  at  her  theatre,  and 
whose  portrait  is  too  well  known  to  need  reproduction 
here,  came  in  a  fabulous  toilette.  A  supper-party  is  to 
these  dames  a  Longchamps  of  dresses,  at  which  tliey 
all  endeavor  to  show  the  worth  of  their  millionnaires 
by  sa3'ing  to  their  rivals  through  their  clothes,  '^  See  the 
price  he  has  paid  for  me." 

A  third  w^oman,  apparently'  at  the  outset  of  her 
career,  looked  w'ith  a  sort  of  shame  at  the  display  of 
the  two  others.  She  w^as  simply  dressed,  in  white  cash- 
mere trimmed  with  blue,  and  crowned  with  flowers  by 
a  hairdresser  of  the  Merlan  type,  wdiose  clums}'  hands 
had  contrived,  without  knowing  it,  to  give  the  graces 
of  innocence  to  tlie  beautiful  blond  hair.  Not  at 
ease  in  her  dress,  she  showed,  to  use  the  consecrated 

32 


498  Cousin   Bette. 

phrase,  "  the  timidit}'  of  a  first  appearance."  She  had 
brought  from  Valogne  to  the  markets  of  Paris  an  inex- 
pressible freshness,  a  candor  and  beaut3'  equal  to  an^' 
that  Normandy  has  ever  supplied  to  the  various  the- 
atres of  the  capital.  The  lines  of  the  unblemished  face 
showed  the  ideal  purity  of  angels ;  its  milky  whiteness 
reflected  back  the  light  as  though  it  were  a  mirror,  and 
her  color  was  finely  touched  on  as  with  a  brush. 

She  was  called  Cydalise  ;  and  was,  as  we  shall  see. 
a  pawn  in  the  game  which  Madame  de  Saint-Esteve, 
otherwise  named  Madame  Nourrisson,  was  about  to 
play  against  Madame  Marneflfe. 

"  You  have  n't  the  arms  of  your  name,  ni}'  dear,"  said 
Jenny  Cadine,  to  whom  Carabine  presented  the  little 
beauty,  who  was  sixteen  years  of  age.  In  truth  Cyda- 
lise presented  for  public  admiration  a  pair  of  handsome 
arms,  of  fine  texture  but  reddened  b}-  superabundant 
health. 

''What  is  she  worth?"  asked  Jenny  Cadine  in  a 
whisper  of  Carabine. 

"  A  fortune." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"Make  Combabus  marr\'  her." 

"  What  do  you  get  for  that  performance?  " 

"Guess." 

"  A  silver  service  ?  " 

"  I  have  three." 

"  Diamonds?  " 

"  I  sell  some  of  mine." 

"A  green  monkey?" 

"  No  !  a  picture  bj^  Raphael." 

*'  What  maggot  have  you  got  in  your  head  ?" 


Cousin   Bette.  499 

"Josepha  crows  over  me  with  her  pictures."  an- 
swered Carabine.      '•!  want  some  as  fine  as  hers." 

Du  Tillet  arrived  witii  the  liero  of  tlie  feast,  the  Bi-a- 
zihan ;  the  Due  d'lk'rouville  followed  with  Joscpha. 
The  singer  wore  a  simple  velvet  robe,  but  round  her 
neck  lay  a  necklace  of  pearls,  worth  a  hundred  and 
twent}'  thousand  francs,  and  hardly  distinguishable  from 
a  skin  which  was  Uke  a  white  camellia.  She  had  put  a  red 
bud  (a  moucJie)  among  the  braids  of  her  hair  with  be- 
wildering effect,  and  round  her  arms,  twined  one  above 
the  other,  were  eleven  pearl  bracelets  on  each  arm. 
"  Lend  me  those  mittens,"  said  Jenny  Cadine,  as  she 
shook  hands  with  her.  Josepha  took  off'  the  bracelets 
and  offered  them  on  a  plate  to  her  friend. 

'•  What  style  !  "  exclaimed  Carabine.  "You  ought  to 
be  a  duchess  !  —  You  have  plundered  the  sea,  Monsieur 
le  due,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  little  man. 

Jenny  Cadine  accepted  a  single  bracelet,  fastened  the 
twenty-one  others  to  Joscpha's  arras  and  kissed  her. 
Lousteau,  the  literar}^  sponger,  la  Palferine  and  Ma- 
laga, Massol  and  Vauvinet  and  Theodore  Gaillard, 
proprietor  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  political  news- 
papers, completed  the  number  of  the  guests.  The  Due 
d'Herouville,  polite,  as  a  great  lord  should  be,  to  all 
the  world,  nevertheless  gave  the  Comte  de  la  Palferine 
that  significant  little  bow  which,  without  implying  esteem 
or  intimac}-,  sa^s  to  everybody  else,  ''  We  are  equals  — 
of  the  same  race  and  familv."  This  little  bow.  the 
shibboleth  of  aristocracy,  was  invented  to  be  the  despair 
of  men  of  intellect  among  the  upper  bourgeoisie. 

Carabine  placed  Combabus  at  her  left  and  the  Due 
d'Herouville  at  her  right.    Cvdalise  flanked  the  Brazilian, 


500  Cousin   Bi'tte. 

and  Bixioii  was  on  the  other  side  of  Cydalise.  Malaga 
sat  next  the  duke. 

At  seven  o'clock  the}'  attacked  the  oysters  ;  at  eight, 
between  two  courses,  Roman  punch  was  served.  Eveiy- 
body  knows  the  bill  of  fare  of  such  banquets.  By  nine 
o'clock  the}"  were  all  chattering  as  people  chatter  after 
forty-two  bottles  of  wine  have  been  drunk  among  four- 
teen persons.  The  dessert,  a  miserable  month  of  April 
dessert,  was  served.  The  heady  atmosphere  had  intoxi- 
cated no  one  but  Cydalise,  who  was  singing  a  Christmas 
carol.  With  that  exception,  none  of  them  had  lost  their 
heads,  for  men  and  women  both  were  the  elite  of  Paris 
as  to  suppers.  Wit  sparkled,  eyes,  though  the}'  shone, 
were  full  of  intelligence,  but  the  lips  were  verging  on 
satire,  anecdote,  and  indiscretion.  The  conversation, 
which  had  so  far  turned  a  vicious  circle  round  current 
events,  horses,  disasters  at  the  Bourse,  the  various 
merits  of  the  people  of  their  own  stamp,  comparing  them 
with  one  another,  together  with  well-known  scandalous 
tales,  now  threatened  to  become  personal,  and  to  break 
up  into  groups  of  two. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that,  in  consequence  of  certain 
glances  distributed  by  Carabine  among  Leon  de  Lora, 
Bixiou,  la  Palferine  and  du  Tillet,  the  talk  was  turned 
on  love. 

"  Doctors  never  talk  medicine,  real  nobles  never  talk 
ancestors,  men  of  genius  never  tell  of  their  own  works," 
said  Josepha,  "why  should  we  talk  shop?  I  got  ex- 
cused from  the  Opera  to  come  here  to-night,  and  I  don't 
want  to  bring  my  business  with  me.  Let's  change  the 
subject,   my  dears." 

"  We  are  talking  of  real  love,"  said  Malaga,  "  love 


Cousin   Bette.  501 

which  drives  men  to  perdition  —  drives  them  to  ruin 
their  fathers  and  mothers  and  sell  their  wives  and  their 
children  —  drives  them  into  Clich}'." 

"  Don't  know  it !  "  said  Josepha.  These  words,  aided 
by  the  e3'es  and  expression  of  face  of  such  women,  is  an 
epic  poem  upon  their  lips. 

"  Do  I  not  love  3'ou,  Josepha?"  said  the  duke  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  You  may,  perhaps,  reallj'  love  me/'  whispered  the 
singer,  smiling;  "  but  I  do  not  love  you  with  the  love 
they  are  talking  of,  that  love  which  turns  the  universe 
all  black  if  the  one  we  love  is  not  with  us.  You  are 
agreeable  and  useful,  but  you  are  not  indispensable  to 
me  ;  if  3'ou  desert  me  to-morrow,  I  shall  find  three  dukes 
for  one." 

"  Does  real  love  exist  in  Paris?  "  said  Leon  de  Lora. 
"  No  one  has  time  to  make  his  fortune,  how  then  can  he 
give  himself  up  to  real  love,  which  takes  possession  of 
a  man  as  water  saturates  sugar.  One  must  needs  be 
enormousl}'  rich  to  love  in  that  wa}",  for  love  makes  a 
man  a  cipher  for  everything  else  —  witness  our  dear 
Brazilian  baron  here  present.  A  real  lover  is  like  a 
eunuch,  there  are  no  longer  an}'  women  on  earth  to  him. 
He  is  a  mj'sterj',  he  is  like  the  first  Christian,  solitar}' 
in  his  desert.  Look  at  our  worth}'  Brazilian."  All 
eyes  turned  to  Henri  Montez,  who  was  annoyed  to  find 
himself  the  object  of  such  notice.  "  He  has  been  feeding 
there  for  the  last  hour  without  knowing,  an}'  more  than 
an  ox,  that  his  neighbor  is  the  —  I  won't  say  the  prettiest, 
but  the  freshest  woman  in  Paris." 

"  All  is  fresh  here,  even  the  fish  wdiich  gives  the 
Rocher  de  Cancale  its  renown,"  said  Carabine. 


502  Cousin   Bette. 

Baron  Montez  looked  nt  the  landscape  painter  in  a 
friendl}'  manner,  saving,  ^'Yery  good,  I  drink  3'our 
health  ;  "  then  he  bowed,  raised  his  glass,  filled  with  port, 
and  drank  the  wine  ceremonioush'. 

"  Then  3'ou  do  love  some  one?"  said  Carabine,  inter- 
prethig  his  toast  to  have  that  meaning. 

The  Brazilian  filled  his  glass,  bowed  to  Carabine  and 
repeated  the  toast. 

"  Here's  to  Madame's  health,"  said  the  lorette,  in  so 
comic  a  tone  that  Lora,  du  Tillet,  and  Bixiou  burst  out 
laughing. 

The  Brazilian  continued  as  immovable  as  a  bronze 
image.  His  cool  reserve  irritated  Carabine.  She  knew 
perfectl}^  well  that  he  loved  Madame  Marnetfe  ;  but  she 
did  not  expect  to  encounter  such  stolid  faith,  the  obsti- 
nate silence  of  a  perfectlj'  secure  man.  We  sometimes 
judge  of  a  woman  hy  the  attitude  of  her  lover,  and  of  a 
lover  by  the  conduct  of  his  mistress.  Proud  of  loving- 
Valerie  and  sure  of  being  loved  by  her,  the  baron's  smile 
bore,  to  the  ej'es  of  these  professors  emeriti,  a  tinge  of 
iron}^,  and  he  was  certainly  at  that  moment  superb  to 
look  upon  ;  wine  had  not  heightened  his  color ;  his  e3'es, 
shinhig  with  the  special  brilliancy  of  golden  h"zel,  kept 
back  the  secrets  of  his  soul.  Carabine  said  to  herself: 
"  What  a  woman  !  how  does  she  manage  to  keep  yowY 
heart  under  lock  and  key  like  that  ?  "  • 

"  He  is  a  roc,"  said  Bixiou,  who  saw  the  chance  for  a 
pun  and  did  not  suspect  the  importance  wiiich  Carabine 
attached  to  the  demolition  of  Montez's  reserve. 

While  these  remarks,  apparentl}'  so  frivolous,  were 
made  on  Carabine's  right  the  discussion  of  love  was 
continued  on  her  left  by  the  Due  d'Herouville,  Lousteau, 


Cousin   Bette.  503 

Josepha,  Jennj'  Cadine,  and  Massol.  They  came  at 
last  to  inquire  wlietlier  its  rare  phenomena  were  i)ro- 
diiced  b}'  passion,  by  obstinacy,  or  b}-  genuine  feeling. 
Josepha,  much  bored  by  these  theories,  again  tried  to 
change  the  conversation. 

"  You  talk  of  something  3'ou  know  nothing  of,"  she 
said.  "  Is  there  a  man  among  you  who  has  so  loved  a 
w^oman  —  an  unworthy  woman  —  as  to  squander  his  for- 
tune and  that  of  his  children,  sell  his  future,  disgrace 
his  past,  risk  the  galley's  b}'  robbing  the  State,  kill  his 
inicle  and  his  brother,  and  allow  that  woman  to  so 
blind  him  that  he  never  sees  the  gulf  into  which  she 
is  aiming,  as  a  last  amusement,  to  drive  him?  Da 
Tillet  carries  a  ledger  in  place  of  a  heart ;  Leon  de 
Lora  his  wit  in  the  same  place ;  Bixiou  would  laugh 
at  himself  if  he  loved  anybody  better  than  Bixiou  ; 
Massol's  heart  is  a  ministerial  portfolio ;  Lousteau's 
nothing  but  a  viscus  (he  who  could  let  Madame  de 
Baudraye  leave  him  !)  ;  Monsieur  le  due  is  too  wealthy 
to  prove  his  love  by  ruining  himself,  and  Vauvinet 
does  n't  count  —  the  broker  of  the  human  species  has 
no  heart.  No,  none  of  3'ou  have  ever  loved,  nor  I 
either,  nor  Jenn}',  nor  Carabine.  But  I  did  once,  and 
once  onl}',  see  the  phenomenon  I  have  just  described^ 
I  mean,"  she  said,  turning  to  Jenn}'  Cadine,  "  our  p'-go 
Baron  Hulot,  for  whom  I  am  now  advertising  as  I  w 
for  a  lost  dog  —  I  am  determined  to  find  him."         you 

"Ha!"  thought  Carabine,  looking  suspiciouslyr.^. 
Josepha,  "has  Madame  Nourrisson  two  of  Raphaels 
pictures?     Is  Josepha  playing  m^'  game?  " 

"  Poor  man  !  "  said  Vauvinet,  "  he  was  really  a  fine 
fellow.     What  stvle  he  had!  what  an  air  and  manner! 


504  Cousin  Bette. 

He  was  like  Francois  I.  ;  a  perfect  volcano !  and  what 
abilit}',  what  genius  he  displayed  in  getting  hold  of 
monej' !  I  have  no  doubt  he  still  manages  to  get  it 
wherever  he  is  ;  perhaps  he  digs  it  out  of  the  walls  of 
Paris  somewhere  in  the  faubourgs  and  about  the  bar- 
rih'es  where  he  is  probabh'  hidden." 

"  And  all,"  said  Bixiou,  ''  for  that  little  Madame 
Marneffe  !     What  a  vicious  thing  she  is,  too !  " 

"  She  is  going  to  marrj-  my  friend  Crevel,"  said  du 
Tillet. 

"  And  she  is  madly  in  love  with  my  friend  Stein- 
bock,"  said  Leon  de  Lora. 

The  three  speeches  were  like  pistol-shots  striking 
Montez  full  in  the  breast.  He  grew  livid  and  suffered 
so  intensely  that  he  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"  You  are  scoundrels  !  "  he  said.  "  You  ought  not  to 
mention  the  name  of  an  honest  woman  in  presence  of 
these  lost  women  of  yours,  and  make  her  a  target  for 
your  vile  jests." 

Montez  was  interrupted  by  a  chorus  of  plaudits  and 
bravos,  for  which  Bixiou,  Lora,  Vauvinet,  du  Tillet, 
and  Massol  gave  the  signal. 

"  Long  live  the  Emperor  !  "  said  Bixiou. 
,    "  Crown  him  !  "  cried  Vauvinet. 

4i^'0ne  groan   for   Medor,   and   hurrah   for  Brazil!" 
heart^^^  Lousteau. 

t;  fih,  my  armored  baron  !  so  you  love  our  Valerie?  " 

.  Leon  de  Lora,  "  and  vou  are  not  yet  diso^usted?" 

pil  '  .J  J  jr> 

"What  he  said  wasn't  parUamentary,"  remarked 
]\Iassol,  "  but  it  was  magnificent." 

"My  dear  invaluable  client,"  said  du  Tillet,  "  3'ou 
have  been  recommended  to  me.     I  am  your  banker; 


Cousin  Bette.  505 

and  this  blind  innocence  of  yours  will  not  redound  to 
ni}-  credit." 

"  Tell  me,  you  who  are  a  sober-minded  man  —  "  said 
the  Brazilian  to  du  Tillet. 

"  Thanks,  for  all  of  us,"  said  Bixiou,  bowing. 
"  —  tell  me  something  positive,"  continued  Montez, 
pa^'ing  no  regard  to  Bixiou. 

•'  Well,"  said  du  Tillet,  ''  I  have  the  honor  of  being 
invited  to  Monsieur  Crevel's  marriage  with  Madame 
Marneffe." 

^'Ah,  Combabus,   now  defend  her,"  cried  Josepha. 
Rising  solemnly,  she  walked  with  a  tragic  air  to  Mon- 
tez and  gave  him  a  friendly  tap  on  the  head,  gazing  at 
him  for  a  moment   with  an  air  of  comic  admiration  ; 
then  she   nodded  her  head  and  said  :   "  Hulot  is  my 
t  example  of  love  through  thick  and  thin ;  here 's 
second,  —  but   this    one    ought    not   to    count;  he 
from  the  tropics." 

osepha  genth'  tapped  his  head,  Montez  fell  back 

lir  and  turned  his  eyes  on  du  Tillet.     "If  I  am 

"  \'our  Parisian  jests,"  he  said,  '•  if  you  have 

1  m}'   secret  from    me"  —  he  wrapped   the 

•2^  nd  the  guests  in  one  flaming  glance  full  of 

""in.  i.zil  —  ''I  pray  you,"  he  added,  with  an 

almost  Ci^wd.       and  suppliant  air,  "  tell  me  that  it  is  so 

—  but  do  not  calumniate  the  woman  whom  I  love." 

"  Ah  !  "  whispered  Carabine  in  his  ear,  "  what  if  you 
are  shamefully  betrayed,  deceived,  and  tricked  by  Va- 
lerie ;  what  if  I  can  prove  it  to  3'ou,  an  hour  hence,  in 
m}'  own  house?     Tell  me,  what  would  you  do  then?" 

"I  cannot  tell  3'ou  here  in  presence  of  all  these 
lagos." 


606  Cousin  Bette. 

"  Well  then,  come  home  with  me,  and  I  '11  give  3-011 
proofs." 

Montez  seemed  annihilated.  "Proofs!"  he  stam- 
mered, "  think  what  you  are  saj'ing." 

"Yes,  proofs;  more  than  3-0U  want,"  answered  Ca- 
rabine. *'Bnt  if  mere  suspicion  flies  to  3'our  head  in 
this  wa3'  I  'm  afraid  the  truth  will  drive  you  mad." 

"  Is  n't  he  obstinatel3'  blind,  that  fellow?  A¥h3',  he  is 
worse  than  the  late  King  of  Holland,"  said  Leon  de 
Lora.  "Come,  3'ou  fellows,  Bixiou,  Massol,  and  the 
rest,  are  not  3'ou  all  invited  to  Madame  Marneffe's 
wedding  breakfast  the  da3'  after  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  du  Tillet.  "  I  have  the  honor  to 
repeat.  Monsieur  le  baron,  that  if  you  have  an3'  idea 
of  marrying  Madame  Marneffe  you  are  undoubtedl3^ 
rejected  b3-  a  black-beJl  under  the  name  of  Crevel.  M3' 
good  friend,  Crevel  has  eight3'  thousand  francs  a  year ; 
probably  you  have  not  as  much,  or,  I  feel  quite  sure, 
you  would  have  been  preferred." 

Montez  listened  with  an  air  half-dream3",  half-smiling, 
which  seemed  alarming  to  the  company  about  him.  At 
this  moment  the  head-waiter  entered  the  room  and 
whispered  to  Carabine  that  one  of  her  relations  was  in 
the  salon  and  wished  to  speak  to  her.  The  lorette 
I'ose,  left  the  room,  and  found  Madame  Nourrisson,  alias 
Madame  de  Saint-Esteve,  waiting  for  her,  enveloped  in 
a  cloud  of  black  lace. 

"Well,  am  I  to  go  to  3-our  house,  m3'  dear?  Has 
he  taken  the  bait?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Carabine,  "  the  pistol  is  so  well  loaded 
that  I  am  afraid  it  will  burst." 


Cousin   Bette.  607 


CHAPTER   XXXYI. 

THE    CHEAP    PARISIAN    PARADISE    OF    1840. 

An  hour  later  Montez,  C^'dalise,  and  Carabine,  return-'"^ 
ing  from  the  Roeher  de  Cancale,  entered  Carabine's  little 
salon  in  the  rue  Saint-Georges.      There  the  lorette  saw 
Madame  Nourrisson  on  a  sofa  beside  the  fire.  ( 

"  Dear  me  !  here  's  my  worth}-  aunt,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  m}'  child,  I  came  to  get  ni}'  little  stipend. 
You  Ve  a  good  heart,  but  I  feared  you  might  forget 
that  I  have  bills  to  pay  to-morrow.  Who  is  that  with 
you?  —  the  gentleman  looks  as  though  matters  were  not 
going  well  with  him." 

The  hideous  Madame  Nourrisson,  completel}'  dis- 
guised, looked  like  a  respectable  old  woman  as  she  rose 
to  kiss  Carabine,  one  of  the  hundred  or  more  lorettes 
whom  she  had  started  in  the  horrible  career  of  vice. 

"  He  is  an  Othello  who  makes  no  mistakes;  I  have 
the  honor  of  introducing  to  3'ou  Monsieur  le  baron  Mon- 
tez de  Montejanos." 

"  Eh  !  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  him  ;  you  are 
called  Combabus,  they  tell  me,  because  3'Ou  love  onl}'  one 
woman.  In  Paris  that's  the  same  as  if  you  loved  none 
at  all!  He}'!  can  it  be  the  one  we  were  talking  of  — 
Madame  Marneffe,  who  is  to  be  Crevel's  wife?  If  it  is, 
bless  3'our  stars,  my  dear  monsieur,  for  having  lost  her, 
instead  of  taking  it  to  heart.  She  is  a  shameless  huss}', 
that  little  woman  —  I  know  her  wavs." 


508  Cousin  Bette. 

"Ah,"  said  Carabine,  into  whose  hands  Madame 
Nourrisson  had  covertly  slipped  a  paper  as  she  kissed 
her,  "you  don't  understand  Brazilians.  Thej'  are  mad- 
men who  stick  knives  in  their  own  hearts.  The  more 
jealous  the}^  are  the  more  the}'  want  to  be.  Monsieur 
talks  of  murdering  everybody,  but  he  won't  kill  a  thing, 
because  he  's  in  love.  I  have  brought  him  here  to  give 
him  proofs  of  Madame  Marneffe's  infidelity  which  I  got 
out  of  Steinbock." 

Montez  seemed  drunk ;  he  listened  as  if  what  he 
heard  did  not  concern  him.  Carabine  leisurely  took  off 
her  velvet  mantle  and  then  read  the  following  note 
aloud  :  — 

"  My  treasure,  Jie  dines  to-night  with  Popinot  and  will  come 
to  the  Opera  for  me  about  eleven  o'clock.  I  leave  home  at 
half-past  five  and  shall  expect  to  find  you  in  our  paradise, 
where  you  must  order  a  dinner  from  the  Maison  d'Or. 
Dress  so  that  you  can  take  me  to  the  Opera.  We  shall  have 
four  hours  to  ourselves.  Return  this  note, — not  that  your 
Valerie  distrusts  you, — I  would  give  you  my  life,  my  for- 
tune, and  my  honor,  —  but  I  fear  accidents." 

"There,  baron;  that's  the  fac-simile  of  a  little  note 
sent  by  Madame  Marneffe  to  Comte  Steinbock  this 
morning.     Read  the  address.     The  original  is  burned." 

Montez  turned  and  returned  the  paper ;  he  recog- 
nized the  handwriting ;  then  a  wise  thought  struck 
him,  which  proves  how  much  he  was  shaken. 

"  You  have  some  interest  in  tearing  mj'  heart  in  two," 
he  said,  looking  at  Carabine;  "otherwise  why  should 
you  take  the  trouble  and  pay  the  costs  of  having  this 
letter  lithographed  ?  " 

"  Simpleton  I  "   cried  Carabine,  at  a  sign  from  Ma- 


Cousin   Bette.  509 

dame  Nonrrisson,  "  don't  you  see  that  poor  C\dalise, 
a,  child  of  sixteen,  has  loved  you  for  the  last  three 
months,  till  she  can  neither  eat  nor  drink  nor  sleep 
because  3'ou  take  no  notice  of  her?"  (CydaHse  put 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  appeared  to  weep.) 
"  She  is  furious,  in  spite  of  her  missish  airs,  at  see- 
ing the  man  she  loves  made  a  fool  of  by  that  scandal- 
ous woman,"  continued  Carabine;  "she  is  ready  to 
kill  her  —  " 

*•  Ha  !  "  said  the  Brazilian,  '^  that's  m}'  affair." 

"  Kill  her !  you,  m}'  young  friend?"  exclaimed  Ma- 
dame Nourrisson  ;  "  that's  not  allowed  in  these  days." 

"  Ah,"  said  Montez,  "  I  don't  belong  to  this  country  ; 
its  laws  are  nothing  to  me  ;  I  live  in  a  land  where  I  laugh 
at  them,  and  if  you  give  me  proof — " 

' '  Bless  me  !   the  note  —  is  n't  that  enough  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  Brazilian,  "I  don't  believe  in  writ- 
ing, I  must  see  —  " 

"See!"  exclaimed  Carabine,  quickl}'  understanding 
another  gesture  of  her  pretended  aunt,  "  ^'ou  shall  see 
all,  my  dear  tiger,  on  one  condition." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Look  at  Cydalise." 
.    At  a  sign  from  Madame  Nourrisson,  Cydalise  gazed 
tenderly'  at  the  Brazilian. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  cried  Montez,  perceiving  this  femi- 
nine masterpiece  for  the  first  time,  "if  you  show  me 
Valerie  —  " 

"  —  and  the  Comte  Steinbock,  together?  yes,"  in- 
terposed Madame  Nourrisson. 

For  the  last  ten  minutes  the  old  woman  had  watched 
the  Brazilian  narrowly,  —  she  saw  in  him  an  instrument 


510  Cousin  Bette. 

tuned  to  the  pitch  of  murder ;  she  saw  moreover  that 
he  was  so  blinded  b}'  excitement  that  he  would  take  no 
notice  of  those  who  led  him  on.  Sure  of  these  two 
things,  she  now  interposed. 

"  Cydalise  is  m}'  niece,"  slie  said,  "and  I  have  a 
right  to  inquire  what  all  this  means.  As  for  3'our  de- 
mand to  see  Madame  MarnelFe,  that 's  an  affair  of  ten 
minutes.  One  of  m}'  friends  lets  to  Comte  Steinbock 
the  room  where  vour  Valerie  is  this  moment  drinkino" 
her  coffee  —  queer  coffee  !  but  she  calls  it  coffee.  But 
let  us  understand  each  other.  What  of  Brazil?  I  like 
Brazil ;  it  is  a  warm  country.  What  will  be  m}'  niece's 
position  there  ?  " 

"  Old  ostrich  !  "  said  Montez,  struck  by  the  feathers 
which  adorned  Madame  Nourrisson's  bonnet.  "  Show 
me  Valerie  and  the  artist  together  —  " 

"As  3'ou  would  like  to  be  with  her,"  said  Carabine 
—  "  that 's  understood." 

"  —  and  I  will  marry  this  girl,  if  3'ou  want  me  to, 
and  take  her  to  Brazil  —  " 

Cydalise  took  the  Brazilian's  hand,  which  he  extricated 
as  soon  as  possible,  continuing  his  own  thoughts :  — 

''I  came  back  intending  to  return  to  Brazil  with 
Madame  Marneffe,"  he  said;  "you  don't  know  why  it 
took  me  three  years  to  get  back?  " 

"  No,  m}^  wild  Indian,"  said  Carabine. 

"  She  told  me  she  wished  to  live  alone  with  me  in  a 
desert  —  " 

"  Not  so  wild  after  all,"  cried  Carabine,  bursting  with 
laughter  ;  •'  he  belongs  to  the  tribe  of  civilized  savages." 

"  She  said  it  so  often,"  continued  the  baron,  regard- 
less of  the  lorette's  laughter,  "that  I  prepared  a  de- 


Cousin  Bette.  511 

lightful  residence  on  m}^  property  in  l^razil  ;    I  came 
back  to  Paris,  and  the  night  I  again  beheld  her  —  " 

"  '  Beheld' !  the  word  is  decent.  I'll  remember  it," 
said  Carabine. 

"  —  she  told  me  to  wait  the  death  of  that  wretched 
Marneffe,  and  she  would  marr}'  me.  I  consented ;  I 
even  forgave  her  for  accepting  Baron  Hulot's  attentions. 
I  don't  know  whether  the  devil  was  in  her  petticoats, 
but  from  that  moment  that  woman  satisfied  all  my 
wishes,  all  ni}^  caprices,  all  my  exactions,  —  in  short, 
she  never  gave  me  reason  to  suspect  her ;  no,  not  for  an 
instant." 

'*Ah,  that's  too  bad!"  said  Carabine,  looking  at 
Madame  Nourrisson,  who  nodded  her  head  in  assent. 

"  M3'  faith  in  that  woman,"  continued  Montez,  whose 
tears  were  now  flowing,  "  equalled  my  love.  I  almost 
came  to  blows  with  those  men  just  now  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it,"  said  Carabine. 

"  If  I  am  deceiA'cd,  if  she  is  to  be  married,  if  she  is 
at  this  moment  in  Steinbock's  arms,  that  woman  de- 
serves a  thousand  deaths,  and  I  would  kill  her  as  I 
would  crush  a  fly." 

''And  the  police,  my  little  man?"  said  Madame 
Nourrisson,  with  a  smile  that  made  the  flesh  creep. 

"Yes,  and  the  galle3's  and  all  the  rest  of  it?"  said 
Carabine. 

"You  are  only  boasting,  ni}'  dear  fellow,"  said  Ma- 
dame Nourrisson,  who  wanted  the  Brazilian  to  reveal 
his  plan  of  vengeance. 

"I  will  kill  her,"  repeated  Montez  calmly.  "Ha! 
3'ou  call  me  a  wild  Indian,  a  savage.  Do  you  think  that 
I  shall  imitate  the  folly  of  3'our  compatriots,  who  buy 


512  Cousin   Bette. 

poison  and  pistols  in  the  shops  ?  I  thought  over  m}'  re- 
venge as  3'ou  were  bringing  me  here.  I  am  prepared  in 
case  3'oa  produce  proofs  against  Valerie.  One  of  my 
negro  servants  has  brought  with  him  an  animal  poison, 
the  surest  of  all  poisons,  which  creates  a  disease  far 
more  certain  and  horrible  in  its  effects  than  any  vegeta- 
ble poison.  I  will  find  a  way  to  convey  it  to  that  woman  ; 
and  then,  when  death  is  in  the  veins  of  Crevel  and  his 
wife,  I  shall  be  far  be3'ond  the  Azores  with  your  niece, 
and  I  will  marrj'  her.  We  barbarians,  as  you  call  us, 
have  our  ways  and  means!  —  I  am  going  mad,"  ex- 
claimed the  Brazilian,  in  a  hollow  voice,  suddenly  fall- 
ing backward  on  the  sofa.  "I  shall  die  of  this.  But 
I  icill  see  ;  I  tcill  know  !  It  is  impossible  !  The  note 
was  lithographed  ;  how  do  I  know  it  was  not  forged?  — 
Baron  Hulot  love  Valerie?"  he  continued,  remembering 
Josepha's  revelations,  "why,  the  proof  that  he  did  not 
love  her  is  that  she  still  lives.  Would  I  suflfer  her  to 
live  on  if  she  were  not  wholly'  mine?" 

Montez  was  terrifying  to  see,  and  more  terrifying  to 
hear.  He  foamed,  he  bellowed,  he  contorted  himself; 
everything  he  touched  he  broke  ;  the  woodwork  about 
him  crashed  like  glass. 

"  He  '11  break  everything,"  said  Carabine  to  Madame 
Nourrisson.  "  Come,  come,"  she  said,  tapping  the  Bra- 
zilian, "  a  mad  Roland  is  ver}'  well  in  a  poem,  but  in  a 
private  house  it  is  prosaic  and  costh'." 

"  My  son,"  said  Madame  Nourrisson,  rising  and  plant- 
ing herself  before  the  Brazilian,  "  I  am  of  your  faith. 
When  we  love  in  a  certain  wa}'  we  reckon  with  death  ; 
whoever  betrays  love  tears  life  out  by  the  roots,  and 
pays  with  death !     You  have  my  respect,  my  admira- 


Cousin  Bette.  513 

tion,  m}'  consent.  Bat  you  lovo  that  woman  ;  you  will 
back  down  !  —  " 

"  I?  —  if  you  prove  her  infamous,  I  will —  " 

"Come,  come,  3'ou  talk  too  much  —  let's  see  what 
comes  of  it,"  said  Madame  Nourrisson,  becoming  herself 
again.  "  A  man  who  reall}'  intends  to  revenge  himsell' 
does  n't  tell  how  he  means  to  do  it.  To  see  your  Va- 
lerie in  her  paradise,  you  must  take  Cydalise  with  you, 
and  enter  b}^  mistake,  as  it  were,  —  no  scandal,  no 
disturbance,  remember.  If  you  really  mean  vengeance 
you  must  pretend  to  hang  back,  seem  shocked  at  your 
intrusion,  and  let  her  abuse  you.  Are  you  up  to  that?" 
added  Madame  Nourrisson,  observing  the  Brazilian's 
surprise  at  the  subtle  scheme. 

"  Come,  ostrich,"  he  exclaimed,  "  let  us  go  ;  I  under- 
stand you  ;  I  am  ready." 

"  Adieu,"  said  Madame  Nourrisson  to  Carabine. 

She  signed  to  Cydalise  to  go  before  with  Montez,  and 
stayed  a  moment  alone  with  Carabine. 

"Now,  my  dear."  she  said,  "I'm  only  afraid  that 
he  '11  strangle  her.  That  would  put  me  in  a  bad  box  — 
we  want  such  things  done  quietly.  You  've  earned  your 
Raphael ;  but  they  say  it  is  n't  a  Raphael,  only  a 
Mignard.  Never  mind, — it  is  handsomer;  they  tell 
me  the  Raphaels  have  all  turned  black,  but  this  one  is 
as  pretty  and  bright  as  a  Girodet." 

"  I  only  want  to  get  the  better  of  Josepha,"  cried 
Carabine  ;  "  and  I  don't  care  whether  it  is  a  Mignard  or 
a  Raphael.  That  little  thief  wore  pearls  to-night  —  such 
pearls  !     I'd  damn  my  soul  for  them." 

Cydalise,  Montez,  and  Madame  Nourrisson  took  a 
hackney-coach  from  the   stand    near   Carabine's    front 

33 


514  Cousin   Bette, 

door.  Madame  Nourrisson  whispered  to  the  coachman 
the  address  of  a  house  in  the  block  under  the  Opera- 
house  ;  which  they  would  soon  have  reached,  — for  the 
time  required  to  go  from  the  rue  Saint-Georges  is  only 
about  seven  or  eight  minutes,  —  but  Madame  Nourrisson 
ordered  the  man  to  drive  through  the  rue  Lepelletier 
and  to  go  slowly  past  the  carriages  that  were  drawn  up 
there  waiting  for  the  opera  to  be  over. 

"  Brazilian  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  "  see  if  3'ou  recog- 
nize 3^our  angel's  carriage." 

The  baron  pointed  to  an  equipage  which  the  hackney- 
coach  was  then  passing. 

"  She  told  her  servants  to  be  here  at  ten  o'clock ;  but 
she  went  herself  in  a  street  cab  to  the  house  where  she 
now  is  with  Comte  Steinbock.  She  dined  there,  and 
she  will  come  to  the  Opera  in  about  half  an  hour.  That 
woman  manages  well ! "  added  Madame  Nourrisson. 
' '  Now  you  see  how  it  is  she  has  contrived  to  escape 
detection  so  long." 

The  Brazilian  made  no  answer.  Turned  into  a  tiger, 
he  had  recovered  the  imperturbable  coolness  which  the 
Frenchmen  had  admired  at  dinner.  He  was,  in  fact, 
as  calm  and  composed  as  a  bankrupt  on  the  day  after 
his  assignment. 

Before  the  door  of  the  fatal  house  stood  a  street-cab 
with  a  pair  of  horses,  of  the  kind  called  "  cotnpagnie 
ghierale"  from  the  name  of  the  enterprise. 

"  Stay  here,"  said  Madame  Nourrisson  to  Montez, 
"you  can't  enter  tliis  house  as  you  would  a  tavern. 
You  will  be  summoned  in  a  few  moments." 

The  paradise  which  Madame  Marneffe  and  Wences- 
las  were  now  occupying  was  not  in  the  least  like  Crevel's 


Cousin  Bette.  515 

little  nest ;  which,  b}-  the  b3'e,  he  had  just  sold  to  Max- 
ime  de  Trailles,  fondly  believing  all  use  for  it  was  over. 
Valerie's  present  paradise,  the  paradise  of  man}-  other 
persons,  consisted  of  one  room  on  the  fourth  stor}-, 
opening  on  the  staircase  of  a  house  situated  in  the 
block  of  the  Italian  Opera-house.  On  each  stor}-  was  a 
room  opening  directly  on  the  landing  of  the  stairs,  which 
had  formerl}'  served  as  kitchen  to  each  apartment.  But 
the  house  had  now  become  a  sort  of  inn  let  to  clandes- 
tine lovers  at  exorbitant  prices  ;  the  chief  proprietor,  the 
real  Madame  Nourrisson,  of  the  rue  Neuve-Saint-Marc, 
having  justlj'  estimated  that  her  kitchens  would  return 
a  better  profit  if  used  in  this  wa}'.  All  these  rooms, 
inclosed  by  thick  partition-walls  and  lighted  from  the 
street,  were  completel}'  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the 
house,  and  very  thick  double  doors  shut  them  off  from 
the  landing.  Important  secrets  might  be  talked  of 
without  the  least  risk  of  their  being  overheard.  For 
greater  security,  the  windows  were  provided  wdth  out- 
side blinds  and  inside  shutters.  These  rooms  could 
be  hired  for  three  hundred  francs  a  month.  The 
whole  house,  big  with  mysteries  and  Parisian  seventh 
heavens,  was  let  to  Madame  Xourrisson  for  twenty-four 
thousand  francs  a  year ;  on  it  she  cleared,  one  3'ear  with 
another,  twenty  thousand  francs  profit  over  and  above 
the  rent. 

The  special  paradise  let  to  Comte  Steinbock  was  hung 
in  chintz.  A  soft,  thick  carpet  protected  the  feet  from 
the  chill}'  hardness  of  a  red-tiled  floor.  The  furniture  con- 
sisted of  two  pretty  chairs  and  a  bed  in  an  alcove,  partly 
hidden  just  now  by  a  table  covered  with  the  remains  of 
a  choice  dinner,  where  two  long-necked  bottles,  and  a 


516  Cousin  Bette. 

bottle  of  Champagne  standing  empty  in  ice  marked  out 
the  fields  of  Bacchus  which  Venus  cultivated.  Beside 
the  fireplace  stood  a  comfortable  eas}'- chair,  sent  no 
doubt  b}^  Valerie,  and  against  the  wall  was  a  prett}' 
bureau  in  rosewood  with  a  mirror  draped  a  la  Pompa- 
dour. A  lamp,  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  gave  some 
light,  which  was  increased  by  the  wax-candles  on  the 
table  and  others  standing  on  the  mantle-shelf 

This  sketch  will  serve  to  show,  nrhi  et  orhi^  the  petty 
and  vulgar  conditions  of  clandestine  love  as  practised 
in  the  Paris  of  1840.  What  a  distance  has  the  world 
travelled  from  the  adulterous  love  symbolized  by  the 
net  of  Vulcan  three  thousand  years  ago ! 

As  Cydalise  and  the  baron  were  going  up  the  four 
flights  of  stairs,  Valerie,  standing  before  the  fireplace, 
where  a  few  sticks  were  burning,  was  teaching  Wen- 
ceslas  to  lace  her  corset. 

"  Upon  m}'  word  !  after  two  years'  practice,  yow. 
don't  know  how  to  lace  a  woman  better  than  that ! 
Ah  !  you  're  too  much  of  a  Pole  still  !  Come,  it  is 
almost  ten  o'clock,  my  Wenceslas." 

Just  then  a  maid-servant  of  the  house,  using  the 
blade  of  a  knife,  adroitly  slipped  the  bolt  of  the  double 
door  which  made  Adam  and  Eve  secure  in  their  para- 
dise. She  opened  the  door  abruptly,  —  for  people  who 
hire  rooms  in  such  houses  have  little  time  to  spare,  — 
and  disclosed  one  of  those  geiire  pictures  in  Gavarni's 
st^'le  so  often  exhibited  in  the  Salon. 

"  This  wa}',  madame,"  said  the  maid. 

Cydalise  entered,  followed  b}'  Baron  Montez. 

"Ah!  there's  some  one  here !"  said  the  frightened 
Cydalise.     "  Excuse  me,  madame." 


Cousin  Bette.  517 

"'It  is  Valerie ! "  cried  Montez,  slamming  the  door 
violently. 

Madame  Marneffe,  overcome  with  an  emotion  too 
strong  to  be  mastered  in  a  moment,  fell  on  a  chair 
at  the  corner  of  the  fireplace.  Tears  came  into  her 
e3'es,  but  dried  instantl}-.  She  looked  at  Montez,  then 
at  C3Tlalise,  and  burst  into  a  forced  laugh.  The  anger 
of  an  offended  woman  stood  her  in  place  of  her  de- 
ficient clothes  ;  she  came  straight  to  the  Brazilian,  and 
looked  at  him  so  fiercely  that  her  e3'es  glittered  like 
weapons. 

"  So,"  she  said,  pointing  to  Cj^dalise,  "this  is  yonv 
fidelity  !  —  3'ou,  who  have  made  me  promises  enough  to 
convert  an  atheist  in  love  !  you,  for  whom  I  have  done 
so  much  —  crimes  even  !  You  are  right,  monsieur  ;  I 
am  nothing  in  comparison  with  a  girl  of  that  age  and 
beauty  !  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  she  went  on, 
pointing  to  Wenceslas,  whose  disordered  appearance 
was  a  proof  too  evident  to  be  denied.  "This  is  m}* 
afi'air.  If  I  could  love  3'ou,  after  this  infamous  be- 
ti'a3'al,  —  for  3'ou  have  spied  upon  me,  you  have  bought 
ever3'  step  of  that  stairway,  and  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  and  the  servant,  even  Reine,  perhaps,  —  oh ! 
what  noble  conduct !  —  if  I  had  an  atom  of  affection 
left  for  a  man  so  base  I  would  make  him  bite  the  dust ; 
but  I  leave  3'ou,  monsieur,  to  your  doubts,  which  will 
turn  into  remorse.     Wenceslas,  m3^  dress." 

She  took  the  garment,  put  it  on,  looked  herself  all 
over  in  the  glass,  and  tranquill3'  finished  dressing,  with- 
out even  glancing  at  the  Brazilian,  absolutel3'  as  though 
she  were  alone. 

"Wenceslas,  are  3'ou  read3'?  go  first,"  she  said. 


518  Cousin  Bette. 

With  the  corner  of  her  e3'e  she  had  seen  the  ex- 
pression of  Montez's  face  in  the  glass.  In  its  pallor  she 
thought  she  saw  the  indication  of  that  weakness  which 
delivers  strong  men  over  into  the  power  of  a  woman's 
fascination.  She  took  his  hand,  coming  near  enough 
to  let  him  breathe  those  terrible  and  beloved  perfumes 
with  which  lovers  intoxicate  themselves  ;  then,  aware 
of  his  emotion,  she  looked  at  him  reproachfull}^  and 
said :  — 

' '  I  permit  3'oa  to  go  to  Monsieur  Crevel  and  tell 
him  of  your  discover}'.  He  will  never  believe  you. 
I  do  right  to  marry  him  ;  I  shall  marry  him  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  make  him  happy.  Adieu  ; 
tr}'  to  forget  me." 

"Ah,  Valerie!"  cried  Henri  Montez,  clasping  her 
in  his  arms  ;  ' '  that  is  impossible  !  Come  with  me  to 
Brazil ! " 

Valerie  looked  at  him ;  she  had  recovered  her  slave. 

"If  3'ou  still  loved  me,  Henri,"  she  said,  "I  could 
be  3^our  wife  in  two  years  —  but  no,  there 's  something 
sl}^  and  dangerous  in  your  face  at  this  moment." 

"  I  swear  to  you  that  the}'  made  me  drunk  and  flung 
that  woman  upon  m}'  hands,  —  false  friends  that  they 
were  !     Believe  me,  it  is  all  accidental !  " 

"Then  I  can  still  forgive  3'ou?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Will  you  marry  me  now? "  asked  the  baron,  a  prey 
to  the  keenest  anxiet}'. 

"Eighty  thousand  francs  a  year!"  she  cried,  with 
an  enthusiasm  that  was  almost  comical;  "and  Crevel 
loves  me  so  he  must  soon  die  ! " 

"Ha!  I  begin  to  understand  you,"  said  the  Bra- 
zilian. 


Cousin  Bette.  519 

She  left  him  triumphantl}'. 

"  I  have  no  longer  any  scruples,"  thought  the  baron, 
who  remained  for  a  moment  rooted  to  the  spot.  "  Can 
such  things  be?  That  woman  means  to  use  her  love 
to  get  rid  of  that  old  fool,  just  as  she  reckoned  on  the 
destruction  of  Marneffe.  Yes,  I  will  be  the  instrument 
of  the  wrath  of  God."' 

Two  da3's  later  the  guests  who  at  du  Tillet's  banquet 
had  torn  Madame  Marneffe  to  pieces  with  their  tongues 
were  all  breakfasting  at  her  table  an  hour  after  she 
had  cast  her  skin  and  changed  her  name  for  the  more 
illustrious  one  of  the  maj'or  of  Paris.  Such  infidelities 
of  the  tongue  are  among  the  commonest  peccadilloes  of 
Parisian  life.  Valerie  had  seen  with  much  satisfaction 
that  Montez  was  present  in  the  church,  and  his  appear- 
ance at  the  breakfast  astonished  no  one.  All  those  men 
of  wit  and  intellect  were  accustomed  to  the  degradations 
of  passion  and  the  compromises  of  intrigue.  The  gloom 
displayed  by  Steinbock,  who  was  beginning  to  despise 
the  woman  he  had  so  long  thought  an  angel,  seemed  to 
the  persons  present  to  be  in  excellent  taste,  intended 
to  show  that  all  was  over  between  Valerie  and  himself. 
Lisbeth  arrived  to  kiss  her  dear  Madame  Crevel,  but 
excused  herself  from  remaining  to  the  breakfast  on  the 
ground  of  Madame  Hulot's  alarming  condition. 

"  Don't  be  uneas}^,"  she  said  to  Valerie  as  she  left 
her,  "  they  will  invite  j'ou  to  their  house,  and  you  will 
receive  them  in  3'ours.  Those  four  little  words,  tico  hun- 
dred thousand  francs^  simply  annihilated  Adeline  when 
she  heard  them.  Oh !  3'ou  hold  the  whip  hand  with  that 
story,  — but  you  must  tell  me  what  it  is." 

A  month  after  her  marriage  Valerie  had  reached  her 


520  Cousin  Bette. 

tenth  quarrel  with  Steinbock,  who  insisted  on  explana- 
tions about  Henri  Montez  and  reminded  her  of  expres- 
sions which  she  used  during  the  scene  in  paradise.  Not 
onl}'  did  he  wither  her  with  his  contempt,  but  he  watched 
her  so  closely  that  she  no  longer  had  a  moment's  free- 
dom, caught  as  she  was  now  between  the  jealous}'  of  Wen- 
ceslas  and  the  eagerness  of  Crevel.  Lisbeth's  excellent 
advice  being  no  longer  at  hand,  Valerie  lost  her  head 
sufficient!}'  to  reproach  Wenceslas  sharply  for  all  the 
money  he  had  cost  her.  Steinbock's  pride  was  up  in 
arms  and  he  absented  himself  from  the  Crevel  mansion. 
This  was  Valerie's  object ;  she  wished  to  get  rid  of  him 
for  a  short  time  and  recover  her  libert}'.  Crevel  ex- 
pected to  pa}'  a  visit  to  Comte  Popinot  at  his  country- 
place  for  the  purpose  of  negotiating  Madame  Crevel's 
presentation  at  court,  and  Valerie  was  anxiously  await- 
ing that  moment  in  order  to  come  to  an  explanation 
with  Montez.  The  morning  of  the  day  when  all  this 
was  to  happen,  Reine,  who  judged  her  crime  by  the 
largeness  of  the  sum  received  for  it,  tried  to  warn  her 
mistress,  in  whom  she  was  naturally  more  interested 
than  in  strangers  ;  but  she  had  been  threatened  with 
accusations  of  insanity  and  imprisonment  in  the  Sal- 
petriere  in  case  she  played  false,  and  was  therefore 
timid. 

"  Madame  is  so  happy  now,"  she  began,  "why  should 
she  trouble  herself  about  that  Brazilian?  I  distrust 
him," 

"  That's  true,  Reine,"  answered  her  mistress,  "  and 
I  am  going  to  send  him  off." 

"  Ah,  Madame,  I  am  so  glad;  he  frightens  me,  that 
blackamoor  !     I  think  he 's  capable  of  a  crime." 


Cousin  Bette.  521 

"  Silly  girl  I  It  is  for  him  3'ou  ought  to  fear  when  he 
is  with  me." 

Just  then  Lisbeth  came  in. 

"Ah,  my  dearest,  how  long  it  is  since  I  have  seen 
you!"  cried  Valerie.  "I'm  ver}'  unhapp}'.  Crevel 
plagues  me  to  death  and  I  've  lost  Wenceslas  —  we  've 
quarrelled." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  and  I  have  come 
about  it  to-da}'.  Victorin  met  him  at  five  o'clock  the 
other  evening  just  as  he  was  entering  a  twenty-five  sous 
restaurant  in  the  rue  de  Valois ;  he  caught  him  fasting 
and  plied  him  with  sentiment  and  finally  brought  him  to 
the  rue  Louis-le-Grand.  When  Hortense  saw  him,  pale 
and  ill  and  shabb}',  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  That 's 
how  you  've  betrayed  me." 

"Monsieur  le  baron  Montez,  raadame,"  said  the 
footman. 

"You  must  go  now,  Lisbeth;  I'll  explain  it  all 
to-morrow." 

But,  as  we  shall  see,  Valerie  was  soon  to  be  unable  to 
explain  anything. 


522  Cousin  Bette, 


CHAPTER    XXXVIL 

FULFILMENT   OF    VALERIE's    JESTING   PROPHECIES. 

Toward  the  end  of  Ma}^  Baron  Hulot's  pension  was 
wholly  freed  by  the  payments  which  Victorin  made  from 
time  to  time  to  Baron  Nueingen.  Everybod}"  knows 
that  the  quarterly  distribution  of  pensions  is  not  paid 
unless  a  certificate  of  the  life  of  the  annuitant  is  pre- 
sented ;  and  as  nothing  was  known  of  Baron  Hulot,  the 
quarterly  sums  which  had  been  assigned  over  to  Vauvi- 
net  still  remained  unpaid  in  the  Treasur3\  Vauvinet 
had  signed  his  release  of  all  claims  and  it  now  became 
necessary  to  find  the  nominee  so  as  to  draw  out  the  ac- 
cumulated funds.  Madame  Hulot,  thanks  to  Dr.  Bian- 
chon,  had  recovered  her  health.  The  kind  Josepha 
contributed  to  this  result  b^'  a  letter,  the  style  and  or- 
thography of  which  betra3'ed  the  collaboration  of  her 
little  duke.  The  following  was  all  the  information  »the 
singer  was  able  to  convey  to  the  baroness  after  an  ac- 
tive search  of  fort}'  daj's  :  — 

Madame  la  baronne,  — Monsieur  Hulot  was  living  two 
months  ago  in  the  rue  des  Bernardins,  with  Elodie  Chardin, 
the  lace-mender,  who  took  him  away  from  Mademoiselle  Bi- 
jou. He  has  now  disappeared  from  there,  leaving  everything 
that  he  possessed  behind  him,  and  without  saying  where  he 
was  going.  I  am  not  discouraged,  however;  and  I  have  set 
a  man  upon  his  traces  who  thinks  he  saw  him  not  long  ago 
on  the  boulevard  Bourdon. 


Cousin   Bette.  523 

The  poor  Jewess  will  keep  her  promise  to  the  Christian. 
Will  the  good  spirit  pray  for  the  evil  one?  surely  that  is 
often  done  in  heaven.     I  am  with  deep  respect  and  forever, 
Your  humble  servant, 

JOSEPHA   MiRAH. 

Yictorin  Hulot,  hearing  nothing  more  of  the  dreadful 
Madame  Nourrisson,  finding  that  his  father-in-law  w^as 
reall}'  married,  and  having  brought  his  brother-in-law 
back  under  the  famil}'  roof,  turned  once  more  to  his 
legal  and  political  duties,  and  was  carried  along  b}^  the 
current  of  Parisian  life,  in  which  hours  often  count  for  as 
much  as  days.  Having  a  certain  report  to  make  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  he  sat  up  one  night  toward  the 
close  of  the  session  to  prepare  it.  He  was  sitting  in  his 
stud}'  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  waiting  for  the 
footman  to  bring  him  a  shaded  lamp,  and  thinking  of 
his  father.  Feeling  some  reproach  at  leaving  the  search 
to  Josepha,  he  was  resolving  to  see  Monsieur  Chapuzot 
the  next  day  about  the  matter,  when  he  saw  in  the  dim 
twilight,  at  his  open  window,  the  fine  head  of  an  old 
man,  with  a  bald  crown  fringed  with  white  hair. 

"  Monsieur,  will  3'ou  tell  3'our  servants  to  admit  a 
poor  hermit  who  has  just  come  from  the  deserts  to  beg 
mone}'  to  rebuild  his  convent  ? " 

This  apparition,  speaking  in  human  tones,  suddenh' 
reminded  Victorin  of  Madame  Nourrisson's  prophecy, 
and  he  shuddered. 

"  Let  that  old  man  come  in,"  he  said  to  the  footman. 

"  He'll  poison  the  air  of  Monsieur's  stud}-,"  said  the 
man.  "That  brown  robe  of  his  hasn't  been  changed 
since  he  left  Sj'ria,  and  he  has  no  shirt." 

*'  Let  him  come  in,"  repeated  the  lawyer. 


524  Cousin  Bette. 

The  old  man  entered.  Victorin  looked  with  a  suspi- 
cious ej'e  at  the  so-called  pilgrim-hermit,  and  beheld  a 
superb  specimen  of  those  Neapolitan  monks  whose 
robes  are  sister  garments  to  the  rags  of  the  lazzarone, 
their  sandals  leathern  thongs,  and  they  themselves 
mere  human  tatters.  The  man  was  so  perfect  a  speci- 
men of  his  kind  that  Victorin,  distrustful  as  he  still 
was,  checked  his  first  impulse  of  belief  in  Madame 
Nourrisson's  warning." 

"  What  is  it  3'ou  want?  " 

"  Whatever  3'ou  choose  to  give  me." 

Victorin  took  a  five-franc  piece  from  a  pile  of  silver 
on  the  table  and  gave  it  to  the  old  man. 

"It  is  a  small  sum  on  account  for  fifty  thousand 
francs,"  said  the  mendicant. 

The  words  put  an  end  to  Victorin's  doubt. 

"  Has  heaven  fulfilled  its  promises?"  said  the  lawyer 
frowning. 

"  That  question  is  an  insult,  my  son,"  replied  the 
hermit.  "If  3'ou  do  not  wish  to  pay  until  after  the 
funeral,  you  have  tSe  right  to  refuse.  I  will  return  in 
a  week." 

"  The  funeral !  "  exclaimed  Hulot,  rising. 

"Action  has  been  taken,"  said  the  old  man,  bowing 
himself  out ;  "  the  dead  die  quick  in  Paris." 

When  Hulot,  who  had  lowered  his  head  for  a  mo- 
ment, was  about  to  repl}^,  the  active  old  man  bad  dis- 
appeared. 

"I  don't  understand  one  word  of  it,"  said  Victorin 
to  himself.  "But  if  he  does  come  back  in  eight  days  I 
will  ask  him  to  produce  my  father,  —  if  he  is  not  found 
in  the  mean  time.     Where  in  the  world  does  Madame 


Cousin  Bette.  625 

Kourrisson  (3'es,  that  is  her  real  name)  find  such 
actors  ? " 

The  next  day  Dr.  Bianchon  allowed  Madame  Hulot 
to  go  into  the  garden  ;  he  was  asked  at  this  visit  to  ex- 
amine Lisbeth,  who  had  been  confined  to  her  room  for 
two  or  three  weeks  with  a  slight  bronchial  trouble. 
The  wise  doctor,  unwilling  to  express  his  opinion  on 
Bette's  state  until  he  had  seen  more  decisi\'e  symptoms, 
accompanied  the  baroness  into  the  garden  to  watch  the 
eflfect  of  the  open  air  on  her  nervous  quivering  after  be- 
ing shut  awa}'  from  it  for  over  two  months.  The  hope 
of  curing  this  infirmit}'  incited  his  genius. 

"  Your  life  is  a  busy  one,"  said  the  baroness,  "  and 
full  of  sadness.  I  have  known  what  it  is  to  spend  days 
in  watching  phj'sical  suflTering  and  infirmit}'." 

"Madame,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  know  the  work 
which  3'our  charity  prompts  you  to  undertake ;  but  in 
the  long  run  j'ou  will  do  like  the  rest  of  us.  It  is  the 
law  of  social  life.  The  confessor,  the  magistrate,  the 
law^'er  would  find  their  occupation  gone  if  the  sjm'it  of 
the  common  iceal  did  not  counteract  the  heart  of  man. 
Could  existence  continue  without  the  accomplishment  of 
that  Dhenomenon?  The  soldierv,  in  times  of  war,  see 
sufferings  more  terrible  than  those  which  we  see,  but 
all  soldiers  who  have  been  under  fire  are  tender-hearted. 
We  physicians,  have  the  jo3's  of  cure ;  you,  the  happi- 
ness of  saving  a  famih'  from  hunger,  degradation,  mis- 
ery, b}'  enabling  it  to  work  and  thus  restoring  its  social 
status  ;  but  what  shall  console  the  magistrate,  the  com- 
missar}' of  police,  the  lawyer,  who  spends  his  days  in 
lajing  bare  the  base  intrigues  of  self-interest,  —  that 
social  monster  which  knows  no  resfret  but  that  of  not 


526  Cousin  Betfe. 

succeeding,  and  which  remorse  or  repentance  never 
reaches  ?  One  half  of  society  spends  its  time  in  watch- 
ing the  other  half.  I  have  a  friend,  a  lawjer,  now  re- 
tired from  business,  who  tells  me  that  for  the  last  fifteen 
3-ears  notaries  and  legal  advisers  are  as  distrustful  of 
their  clients  as  of  their  clients'  adversaries.  Your  son, 
madame,  is  a  lawyer ;  has  he  never  been  compromised 
b}^  the  man  he  w^as  retained  to  defend  ?  " 

"  Oh,  often  !  "  said  Victorin,  smiling. 

"  What  is  the  root  of  such  evil  ?"  asked  Madame 
Hulot. 

"  The  lack  of  true  rehgion,"  said  the  doctor  ;  '  the  en- 
croachment of  mone3^-getting,  which  is,  in  other  words, 
egotism  materialized.  Money  was  formerly  not  the 
whole  of  life  :  other  forms  of  superiority  were  admitted 
—  nobilit}',  genius,  great  services  done  to  the  State  — 
but  to-day  law  itself  makes  mone}^  the  one  standard  ;  it 
has  made  it  the  essential  basis  of  political  capacit}' ! 
Certain  magistrates  are  not  eligible !  Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau  would  not  be  eligible.  The  perpetual  divid- 
ing up  of  patrimonies  obliges  every  man  to  look  out  for 
his  own  interests  from  the  age  of  twenty-one.  And  so, 
between  the  necessity-  of  making  a  fortune  and  the 
demoralization  of  trickery  and  intrigue  the  barriers  are 
broken  down  ;  for  the  religious  sentiment  is  lacking  in 
France,  in  spite  of  the  praiseworth}'  efforts  of  those 
who  are  trying  to  bring  about  a  Catholic  restoration. 
That  is  the  opinion  of  those  who,  like  me,  view  society 
in  its  inward  parts." 

"  You  have  little  pleasure  in  life,"  said  Hortense. 

"The  true  physician,"  said  Bianchon,  "  has  a  passion 
for  science.     He  is  borne  up  by  that  emotion  as  much 


Cousin   Bette.  527 

as  he  is  by  the  conviction  of  his  social  usefuhiess. 
Wh}',  at  this  veiy  moment  I  am  all  alive  with  scientific 
jo}',  and  man}'  persons  would  take  me  for  a  heartless 
fellow.  To-morrow  I  shall  announce  a  great  discovery 
before  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  —  a  lost  disease,  of 
which  I  have  two  cases.  It  is  incurable ;  science  is 
powerless  against  it,  at  least  in  temperate  climates ; 
it  can  be  cured,  they  sa}',  in  the  Indies.  It  existed  in 
Europe  in  the  middle  ages.  What  an  inspiring  strug- 
gle between  our  noble  profession  and  such  a  malady ! 
For  the  last  ten  da3's  I  have  thought  incessantl}'  of  my 
patients  ;  there  are  two  —  a  husband  and  wife.  B3'  the 
b3'e,  madame,"  he  added,  turning  to  Celestine,  "can 
they  be  relations  of  yours?  Are  you  not  the  daughter 
of  Monsieur  Crevel?" 

"  M}^  father  !  "  exclaimed  Celestine.  "  Does  your 
patient  live  on  the  rue  Barbet-de- J0U3' ?  " 

*'Yes,  he  does,"  answered  Bianchon. 

"And  the  disease  is  fatal?"  said  Victorin,  horror- 
stricken. 

"  I  must  go  to  my  father,"  cried  Celestine,  rising. 

"  I  positively  forbid  it,  madame,"  said  Bianchon, 
quietly,  "  the  disease  is  contagious." 

"You  can  do  so  if  you  like,  monsieur,"  said  the 
3'oung  woman,  firmh' ;  "  but  do  3'ou  think  that  the 
dut3'  of  a  daughter  is  less  imperative  than  that  of  a 
physician  ? " 

"  Madame,  a  ph3'sician  knows  how  to  protect  him- 
self; and  your  unreflecting  self-devotion  warns  me  that 
you  have  not  m}'  prudence." 

Celestine  rose  and  went  up  to  her  own  rooms,  where 
she  dressed  to  go  out. 


528  Cousin  Bette. 

"Monsieur/'  said  Victorin  to  Bianchon,  "have 
3'ou  an}'  liope  of  saving  Monsieur  and  Madame 
brevel?*" 

"  I  hope  it  without  expecting  it,"  replied  Bianchon. 
"  The  case  is  inexplicable  to  me.  The  disease  is  pecu- 
liar to  negroes  and  to  those  American  nations  whose 
cuticle  differs  from  that  of  the  white  races.  Now  I 
cannot  trace  any  connection  between  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Crevel  and  the  blacks,  or  the  copper-colored  or 
half-breed  races.  The  disease,  though  a  very  interesting 
one  for  us,  is  horrifying  for  all  who  come  near  it.  The 
poor  woman,  the}'  sa}-,  was  prett}' ;  to-da}'  she  is  some- 
thing too  frightful  to  b^ehold  —  if  indeed  she  is  a  thing 
at  all !  Her  teeth  and  her  hair  have  fallen  out ;  she 
looks  like  a  leper ;  her  hands  are  horrible,  swollen  and 
covered  with  greenish  pustules,  the  nails  fall  out  and 
remain  in  the  holes  which  she  scratches  in  her  flesh,  — 
indeed  all  the  extremities  are  being  destroj'ed  by  the 
ichor  which  is  eating  into  them.  Poor  woman  !  she  has 
a  horror  of  herself." 

"But  what  caused  it?  "  said  Hulot. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Bianchon,  "  the  cause  is  apparently  the 
decomposition  of  the  blood,  which  is  going  on  with 
frightful  rapidity.  My  hope  is  to  attack  the  disease  in 
the  blood  itself,  which  I  have  had  analyzed,  and  I  am 
now  going  home  to  learn  the  result  from  my  friend 
Professor  Duval,  the  famous  chemist ;  I  shall  probably 
tr}'  one  of  those  heroic  measures  which  we  doctors 
sometimes  play  against  death." 

"  The  finger  of  God  is  in  it ! "  said  the  baroness,  in  a 
voice  of  awful  emotion.  "  Though  that  woman  has 
caused  us  evils  which  have   made  me  call  down  the 


Cousin  Bette.  529 

divine  justice  on  her  head,  3'et  I  pray  to  God  3'ou  may 
succeed  in  saving  her." 

Victorin  Hulot  was  scarcely  master  of  himself;  he 
looked  at  his  mother,  his  sister  and  the  doctor  alter- 
nately, trembling  lest  the}'  should  read  his  secret 
thoughts.  He  felt  like  an  assassin.  Hortense,  for  her 
part,  thought  God  was  just.  Celestine  returned  dressed 
to  go  out,  and  requested  her  husband  to  accompany  her. 

"  If  you  insist  on  going,  madame,  and  3-ou  too,  mon- 
sieur, remember  to  keep  one  foot  awaj-  from  the  beds  ; 
that  is  the  only  precaution  necessary.  Neither  you  nor 
3'our  wife  must  touch  the  patients.  You  must  not  leave 
3'our  wife  a  moment.  Monsieur  Hulot,  lest  she  trans- 
gress this  rule." 

Adeline  and  Hortense,  left  alone,  went  up  to  sit  with 
Lisbeth.  Madame  Steinbock's  hatred  against  Valerie  was 
so  great  that  she  could  not  restrain  an  explosion  of  it. 

"Cousin  Bette,  m}'  mother  and  T  are  avenged,"  she 
cried.  "  That  venomous  creature  is  stung  at  last ;  she 
is  a  heap  of  decomposition." 

"Hortense,"  said  Madame  Hulot,  "  3'ou  are  not  a 
Christian  woman.  You  ought  to  pray  God  to  inspire 
that  unhappy  woman  with  repentance." 

"What  are  3'Ou  talking  about?"  cried  Bette,  rising 
from  her  chair.     "  Are  you  s[)eaking  of  Valerie?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Hortense,  "the  doctors  give  her 
up  ;  she  is  d3'ing  of  a  horrible  disease,  the  very  descrij)- 
tion  of  which  would  make  you  shudder." 

Bette's  teeth  chattered ;  a  cold  sweat  came  out  upon 
her,  a  terrible  convulsion  of  her  whole  being  proved  the 
depth  of  her  feeling  for  Valerie. 

"  I  must  go  to  her,"  she  said. 

34 


530  Cousin  Bette. 

"  But  the  doctor  forbade  your  going  out." 
' '  No  matter  ;  I  shall  go.    Poor  Crevel !  what  a  state 
he  must  be  in,  for  he  loved  his  wife." 

"  He  is  d^'ing  too/'  said  Madame  Steinboek.  "  Ah, 
the  devil  has  laid  liands  on  all  our  enemies  !  " 
"  M}'  daughter,  the}'  are  in  God's  hands." 
Lisbeth  dressed  herself,  putting  on  the  famous  3'ellow 
cashmere,  a  black  velvet  bonnet,  and  laced  boots  ;  then, 
regardless  of  her  cousin's  remonstrances,  she  departed 
as  though  driven  by  some  despotic  power.  Reaching 
the  rue  Barbet  not  long  after  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Hulot,  she  found  seven  doctors,  called  together  b}'  Bian- 
chon  to  view  the  extraordinar}'  and  unique  case.  Bian- 
chon  himself  came  in  shorth'  after.  These  gentlemen, 
standing  about  the  salon,  were  discussing  the  disease 
eagerl}' ;  first  one  and  then  another  would  go  into 
Valerie's  bedroom  or  into  Crevel's  to  observe  some 
point  and  then  return  with  an  argument  based  on  that 
hast}'  examination. 

Three  opinions  were  held  by  these  princes  of  science. 
One  physician  alone  denied  the  existence  of  the  malady 
of  the  middle-ages,  and  declared  the  case  was  one  of 
simple  poisoning  from  private  motives.  Three  others 
considered  it  a  decomposition  of  the  lymph  and  other 
fluids  of  the  system.  The  third  opinion,  held  by  Bian- 
chon  and  the  rest  of  the  doctors,  maintained  that  the 
disease  was  caused  by  a  vitiation  of  the  blood,  corrupted 
by  some  unknown  deadly  element.  Bianchon  brought 
with  him  the  results  of  Professor  Duval's  analysis  of 
the  blood.  The  proposed  method  of  cure,  though  des- 
perate and  altogether  empirical,  depended  on  the  present 
discussion  of  the  question. 


Cousin   Bette.  531 

Lisbeth  stood  petrified  three  feet  from  the  bed  -where 
Valerie  la}'  d\'ing  when  she  saw  the  vicar  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas  beside  the  pillow  of  her  friend,  and  a  sister 
of  charit}'  taking  care  of  her.  Religion  found  a  soul  to 
save  in  that  mass  of  corruption,  where,  of  the  five  hu- 
man senses,  sight  alone  seemed  all  that  was  left.  A 
sister  of  charity,  who  was  found  willing  to  nurse  the 
d3'ing  woman,  stood  at  a  little  distance.  The  Catholic 
Church,  that  divine  bod}',  ever  guided  b}'  the  inspiration 
of  sacrifice  in  all  things,  was  there  to  help  the  wicked, 
and  now  loathsome  creature,  with  its  double  work  for 
mind  and  bod}',  its  infinite  compassion,  and  its  treasures 
of  mercy  inexhaustible. 

The  servants,  horror-stricken,  and  believing  that  their 
masters  were  justly  punished,  thought  only  of  them- 
selves, and  refused  to  enter  the  sick-rooms.  The  stench 
was  so  great  that,  in  spite  of  the  open  windows  and 
the  powerful  perfumes  strewn  about,  no  one  could  re- 
main long;  near  Valerie.  Relio-ion  alone  watched  over 
her.  Could  a  woman  with  a  mind  so  superior  as  hers 
refrain  from  asking  herself  what  interest  kept  those 
representatives  of  the  Church  beside  her?  No  ;  and  she 
therefore  gave  heed  to  the  words  of  the  priest.  Re- 
pentance entered  and  filled  that  corrupted  soul,  even 
as  corruption  ravaged  and  destroyed  the  beauty  of 
its  body.  The  delicate  Valerie  had  offered  less  resist- 
ance to  the  fell  disease  than  Crevel,  and  she  was  about 
to  die  before  him,  having,  moreover,  been  the  first 
attacked. 

"  If  I  had  not  been  ill,  my  Valerie,  I  should  have 
been  here  to  nurse  you,"  said  Lisbeth  at  last,  after 
exchanging  a  look  with  the  sunken  eyes  of  her  friend. 


532  Cousin  Bette. 

''  It  is  fifteen  or  twenty  daj^s  since  I  left  mj^  room,  but 
liearing  to-day  from  the  doctor  of  your  illness,  I  have 
come  at  once." 

"  Poor  Lisbeth!  3'ou  love  me  still.  I  know  it,"  said 
Valerie.  ' '  Listen,  dearest ;  I  have  but  a  day  or  two  to 
think  —  I  cannot  say  to  live.  You  see  me  ;  I  have  no 
body  left.  I  am  a  mass  of  filth  —  I  have  what  I  deserve. 
Oh,  would  that  I  could  now  undo  the  evil  I  have  done, 
that  I  might  find  mercy  —  " 

"Oh,"  said  Lisbeth,  "if  you  talk  like  that,  you  are 
dead  indeed." 

"  Do  not  hinder  this  woman  from  repentance,"  said 
the  priest ;  "  leave  her  to  Christian  thoughts." 

"Nothing  left  of  her!"  muttered  Lisbeth,  horror- 
stricken, —  "not  a  feature;  the  mind  gone  too!  Oh, 
it  is  frightful !  " 

"  You  do  not  know  "  said  Valerie,  "  what  it  is  to  die, 
—  to  be  forced  to  think  of  the  day  after  death,  of  what 
there  must  be  in  the  coffin  :  worms  for  the  bodj',  but 
what  for  the  soul?  Ah,  Lisbeth,  I  am  conscious  there 
is  another  life,  and  the  terror  of  it  keeps  me  from  feel- 
ing the  pains  of  my  rotting  flesh  !  —  I,  who  mimicked 
a  good  woman,  and  told  Crevel,  laughing,  that  God's 
vengeance  had  many  wa3'S  of  punishment — ah,  I  was 
a  prophet !  Do  not  trifle  with  sacred  thingS;  Lisbeth  ! 
If  you  love  me,  repent,  repent !  " 

"  I ! "  said  Bette  ;  "I  have  seen  vengeance  every- 
where in  nature :  the  insects  perish  to  satisfy  their 
need  of  vengeance  when  they  are  attacked  !  And  these 
gentlemen,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  priest,  "tell  us 
that  God  is  revengeful,  and  that  his  vengeance  lasts 
through  all  eternity  —  " 


Cousin  Belie,  533 

The  priest  turned  and  looked  gently  at  her.  ' '  You 
are  an  atheist,  madanie,"  he  said. 

"But  see,  Lisbeth,  what  I  have  come  to,"  said 
Valerie. 

*' How  did  you  get  that  gangrene?"  asked  Bette, 
doggedh'  maintaining  her  peasant  scepticism. 

"  Henri  sent  me  a  note  which  left  no  doubt  upon  my 
fate.  He  has  killed  me.  To  die  just  as  I  meant  to  live 
decently  —  and  to  die  an  object  of  horror  !  —  Lisbeth, 
give  up  all  thoughts  of  vengeance  ;  be  good  to  that 
famil}' ;  I  have  left  them,  in  ni}'  will,  all  that  the  law 
allows  me  to  dispose  of.  Lisbeth,  j'ou  are  the  only 
being  who  does  not  rush  away  from  me  in  horror,  and 
yet  I  pra}*  you  go,  go  —  leave  me!  I  have  so  little 
time  to  give  m3'self  to  God  ! — " 

"She's  delirious,"  thought  Lisbeth,  as  she  left  the 
room. 

The  strongest  known  sentiment,  the  friendship  of  a 
woman  for  a  woman,  was  not  capable  of  the  heroic  con- 
stanc}'  of  the  Church.  Lisbeth,  suffocated  b}'  miasmatic 
odors,  left  the  chamber.  She  found  the  doctors  still 
disputing  ;  but  Bianchon's  opinion  was  gaining  ground, 
until  fin  all  V  no  opposition  was  made  to  his  proposed 
heroic  measures. 

^' At  any  rate,  there  will  be  a  magnificent  ^os^mor^em," 
said  one  of  the  opponents  ;  "  we  shall  have  two  subjects 
and  be  able  to  establish  comparisons." 

Lisbeth  accompanied  Bianchon  as  he  returned  to  Va- 
lerie's chamber  and  leaned  over  the  bed,  apparentl}'  not 
perceiving  the  effluvium  that  proceeded  from  her. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  we  are  going  to  tiy  a  power- 
ful remedy  which  may  possibly  save  you." 


534  Cousin  Bette, 

"  If  3'on  save  me,"  she  said,  "  shall  I  be  as  beautiful 
as  before  ?  " 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  cautious  doctor. 

"  I  know  what  your  perhaps  means  !  "  said  Valerie  ; 
"  I  shall  be  like  those  women  who  fall  into  the  fire. 
No,  leave  me  to  the  Church !  I  can  please  none  but 
God.  Let  me  strive  to  make  my  peace  with  him,  —  it  is 
m}"  last  seduction." 

"Ah,  now  I  recognize  my  Valerie!"  cried  Lisbeth, 
weeping. 

She  felt  herself  obliged  to  go  into  Crevel's  bedroom, 
where  she  found  Victorin  and  his  wife  sitting  three  feet 
from  the  bed  of  the  plague-stricken  man. 

"Lisbeth,"  he  cried  when  he  saw  her,  "they  are 
hiding  m}^  wife's  condition  from  me  ;  you  have  seen  her, 
how  is  she  ?  " 

"She  is  better;  she  says  she  is  saved,"  answered 
Lisbeth,  allowing  herself  the  play  on  words  to  ease 
Crevel's  mind. 

"  Ah,  good  !  "  said  the  mayor  ;  "  I  have  been  terribly 
anxious.  If  I  were  to  lose  her  what  would  become  of 
me?  M}''  children,  believe  me,  on  my  word,  I  adore 
that  woman." 

Crevel  tried  to  assume  his  attitude,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  Oh,  papa !  "  said  Celestine,  "  if  3'ou  were  only  well 
again  I  would  receive  my  step-mother ;  I  vow  it." 

"  Poor  little  Celestine  ! "  said  Crevel,  '^come  and  kiss 
me." 

Victorin  caught  his  wife  as  she  was  about  to  spring 
forward. 

"  You  are  not  aware,  monsieur,"  he  said,  gently, 
"  that  your  disease  is  contagious." 


Cousin  Bette.  535 

"  True,"  said  Crevel,  "  and  the  doctors  are  congrat- 
ulating themselves  on  finding  a  sort  of  middle-age  black 

death  in  it,   which  they  have  long  been  hunting  up. 
Queer,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Papa,"  said  Celestine,  "  be  brave,  and  j-ou  may  still       ^ 
conquer  the  disease."  X/ 

"  Oh  !  don't  be  uneas}',  m.y  dear  ;  death  thinks  twice 
before  it  strikes  a  mayor  of  Paris,"  he  said,  with  comi- 
cal ease  of  manner.  ' '  Besides,  if  my  arrondissement 
is  so  unfortunate  as  to  lose  a  man  whom  it  has  twice 
honored  wdth  its  suffrages  (hein !  that 's  a  well-turned 
phrase,  is  nt  it?),  I  shall  know  how  to  pack  mj'  trunk. 
I  'm  an  old  traveller,  in  the  habit  of  starting  off  on  jour- 
ney's. Ha !  my  children,  I  'm  a  free  thinker,  I  always 
was." 

''Papa,  promise  me  you  will  let  the  Church  minister 
at  3'our  bedside." 

"Never!"  rephed  Crevel.  "I  have  sucked  the 
breasts  of  the  Revolution ;  my  mind  is  not  the  equal  of 
Baron  d'Holbach's  but  I  have  his  strength  of  character. 
Heavens  and  earth !  I  'm  more  than  ever  regency', 
mousquetaire.  Abbe  Dubois,  and  Richelieu  !  M}'  poor 
wife,  who  is  out  of  her  head,  has  just  sent  me  a  man  in 
a  cassock, —  to  me,  the  admirer  of  Beranger,  the  friend  of 
Lisette,  the  child  of  Voltaire  and  Jean- Jacques  !  Dr. 
Bianchon  said,  to  test  me  and  see  if  the  fever  were  go- 
ing down,  'Have  30U  seen  a  priest?'  Well,  how  do 
you  think  I  answered  ?  I  imitated  the  great  Montes- 
quieu. Yes,  I  looked  at  the  doctor  —  there,  like  that 
[putting  himself  at  a  three-quarter  profile,  as  in  his  pict- 
ure, and  stretching  forth  his  hand  authoritativel}']  —  and 
then  I  said  :  — 


536  Cousin  Bette, 

*  The  helot  came ; 
He  showed  his  order,  and  he  left  with  shame.' 

Monsieur  le  president  de  Montesquieu  retained  all  his 
wit  on  his  death-bed.  I  'm  fond  of  that  passage  —  ha, 
'  passage  '  —  a  pun  !  the  passage-Montesquieu." 

Victorin  Hulot  gazed  at  his  father-in-law,  asking  him- 
self sadly  whether  ignorance  and  vanity  did  not  pos- 
sess as  great  a  force  as  true  grandeur  of  soul.  The 
causes  which  pull  the  hidden  wires  of  the  soul  seem  to 
have  no  connection  whatever  with  results.  Can  it  be 
that  the  strength  of  will  displayed  bj-  a  great  criminal 
is  the  same  as  that  of  which  a  Champcenetz  was  justly 
proud  on  his  waj'  to  the  scaffold  ? 

B}^  the  end  of  the  week  Madame  Crevel  was  in  her 
grave,  after  unheard-of  sufferings,  and  Crevel  followed 
his  wife  within  two  da3's.  According  to  the  terms  of 
the  marriage  contract  Crevel  inherited  his  wife's  prop- 
erty', having  survived  her. 

The  day  after  their  funeral  Victorin  Hulot  received  a 
second  visit  from  the  old  monk.  The  mendicant  silently 
held  out  his  hand,  and  silently  Hulot  placed  within  it 
eighty  bank-bills  of  one  thousand  francs  each,  exactly 
the  sum  which  was  found  in  Crevel's  desk.  Madame 
Hulot,  junior,  inherited  the  estate  of  Presles  and  thirt}^ 
thousand  francs  a  year.  Madame  Crevel  had  be- 
queathed three  hundred  thousand  francs  to  Baron 
Hulot.  The  scrofulous  Stanislas  was  to  receive,  on 
coming  of  age,  the  Crevel  mansion  and  an  income  of 
twenty-four  thousand  francs. 


Cousin  Bette.  537 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

RETURN    OF    THE    PRODIGAL    FATHER. 

Among  the  numerous  and  sublime  associations  insti- 
tuted b}'  tlie  Catholic  charity  of  Paris  is  one  founded 
by  Madame  de  la  Chanteiie,  the  object  of  which  is  to 
marry  legally  and  ecclesiastically  persons  of  the  working 
classes  who  live  together  illegitimatel}'.  Legislators 
who  hold  by  the  statistics  of  registration,  the  sovereign 
bourgeoisie  which  clings  to  its  notarial  fees,  feign  to  ig- 
nore that  three  fourths  of  the  working-people  cannot 
pay  fifteen  francs  for  a  marriage  contract.  Notaries  are 
behind  lawyers  on  this  point.  The  Parisian  lawyers,  a 
body  of  men  who  are  a  good  deal  calumniated,  bring 
suits  gratuitously  for  the  ver}'  poor,  whereas  notaries 
have  never  been  willing  to  draw  a  marriage  contract 
gratis  for  such  persons.  As  to  the  public  Treasury-,  one 
would  have  to  shake  the  whole  machine  of  government 
to  make  it  relax  its  system  in  this  matter.  Registration 
is  deaf  and  dumb.  The  Church,  on  its  side,  claims  cer- 
tain rights  over  marriage.  The  Church  in  France  is  ex- 
tremely —  fiscal ;  in  the  house  of  God  it  carries  on  a 
petty  traflSc  in  little  benches  and  chairs  which  disgusts 
foreigners,  though  it  cannot  have  forgotten  the  Saviour's 
anger  when  he  drove  the  money-changers  from  the 
Temple.  However,  if  the  church  is  reluctant  to  yield  its 
sordid  rights,  we  must  remember  that  those  rights  (called 


538  Cousin  Bette, 

parish  propert}')  are  to-day  one  of  its  means  of  living, 
and  therefore  the  meanness  of  the  Church  is  the  fault  of 
the  State.  This  combination  of  claims  —  in  days  when 
people  are  thinking  far  too  much  of  the  woes  of  the 
negro  and  of  the  prisoners  in  jail  to  consider  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  worth}'  poor  —  results  in  the  fact  that  a  vast 
number  of  honest  persons  are  living  in  a  state  of  concu- 
binage solel}'  for  lack  of  thirty  francs,  the  lowest  price 
at  which  a  notary,  the  registration  office,  the  maj^or  and 
the  clergy  can  many  two  Parisians.  Madame  de  la 
Chanterie's  institution,  founded  for  the  purpose  of  put- 
ting such  poor  households  back  into  the  paths  of  relig- 
ion and  virtue,  searches  out  such  couples,  relieves  their 
necessities  in  the  first  place,  and  then  restores  them  to 
their  lawful  condition  as  citizens. 

When  Madame  Hulot  had  entirety  recovered  her 
health  she  went  back  to  her  charitable  occupations ; 
and  about  that  time  the  excellent  Madame  de  la  Chan- 
terie  asked  her  to  add  this  legalization  of  natural  mar- 
riage to  the  other  good  works  for  which  she  was  an 
agent. 

One  of  Adeline's  first  efforts  in  this  line  was  in  the 
dangerous  quarter  known  formerty  as  "  Little  Poland," 
inclosed  b}'  the  rue  du  Rocher,  the  rue  de  la  Pepiniere, 
and  the  rue  Meromenil.  It  forms  a  sort  of  annex  to 
the  faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  In  order  to  describe  this 
neighborhood  it  is  onty  necessary  to  say  that  the  own- 
ers of  certain  houses  inhabited  by  workmen  who  do  no 
work,  b}'  roughs,  and  seditious  talkers,  by  beggars  ph'- 
ing  dangerous  trades,  are  afraid  to  insist  on  their  rents, 
and  seldom  find  sheriff 's  officers  who  are  wiUing  to  eject 
those  who  do  not  pay.    At  the  present  moment  specula- 


Cousin  Bette.  539 

tion  in  real  estate,  which  tends  toward  changing  the 
whole  face  of  Paris  in  this  quarter  and  to  build  up  the 
space  which  separates  the  rue  d' Amsterdam  from  the 
rue  de  la  Faubourg-du-Roule,  will  doubtless  improve 
the  character  of  the  inhabitants,  and  rid  the  neigh- 
borhood of  its  sinister  population  and  its  low  haunts, 
where  the  police  never  set  foot  unless  in  the  pursuit 
of  criminals. 

In  June,  1844,  the  appearance  of  the  place  Delaborde 
and  its  surroundings  was  far  from  reassuring.  If  an 
elegant  j'oung  gentleman  had  chanced  to  turn  from  the 
rue  de  la  Pepiniere  into  one  of  these  horrible  thorough- 
fares he  would  have  been  astonished  at  the  squalid  Bo- 
hemia h'ing  cheek  b}' jowl  with  the  aristocratic  street.  In 
such  quarters,  where  ignorance  and  abject  poverty  have 
reached  their  lowest  depth,  the  street  letter-writer  of  Paris 
still  flourishes.  Wherever  vou  see  the  two  words  ' '  Pub- 
lic Writer,"  written  in  a  large,  flowing  hand  on  a  sheet  of 
white  paper  affixed  to  the  filth}'  window  of  some  ground- 
floor  room,  you  ma}'  confidently  believe  that  the  neigh- 
borhood is  thronged  with  illiterate  persons,  and,  as  a 
natural  result,  with  vices,  crimes,  and  criminals.  Ig- 
norance is  the  mother  of  crime,  and  crime  is,  above  all, 
a  lack  of  reason. 

Now  during  Madame  Hulot's  illness  this  quarter,  to 
which  she  had  been  a  second  Providence,  acquired  the 
services  of  a  public  writer,  whose  sign  was  hung  up 
in  the  passage  du  Soleil,  —  a  name  which  presents  an 
antithesis  not  uncommon  in  the  nomenclatures  of  Paris  ; 
for  this  "  passage  of  the  sun  "  is  sunless  and  doubly  dark. 
This  writer,  thought  to  be  a  German,  was  named  Vyder, 
and  li/ed  matrimonially  with  a  young  girl,  of  whom  he 


5-AO  Cousin  Bette. 

was  so  jealous  that  he  would  only  allow  her  to  visit 
the  family  of  a  certain  respectable  chimney-builder  of 
the  rue  Saint-Lazare,  —  Italians  of  course,  like  all  others 
of  that  trade,  who  had  lived  many  years  in  Paris.  These 
worthy  people  had  been  saved  from  bankruptcy-,  which 
would  have  made  them  poor  for  life,  by  Madame  Hulot, 
acting  on  behalf  of  one  of  her  societies.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  months  ease  replaced  distress,  and  religion  en- 
tered minds  which  had  long  cursed  fate  with  the  ardor 
characteristic  of  the  Italian  nature.  One  of  Madame 
Hulot' s  first  visits  was  to  this  family.  She  was  de- 
lighted with  the  sight  that  met  her  eyes  at  their  es- 
tablishment in  the  rue  du  Rocher.  Above  the  busy 
warehouses  and  workrooms,  where  the  apprentices  and 
laborers,  —  all  Italians  from  the  valle}'  of  Domodossola 
—  were  singing  and  whistling  at  their  work,  the  family 
occupied  a  little  apartment  now  abundantly  supplied. 
Madame  Hulot  was  welcomed  like  a  vision  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  After  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  talk  (being  obliged 
to  wait  for  the  husband  to  hear  the  exact  state  of  af- 
fairs) Adeline  began  her  pious  search  for  persons  living 
out  of  the  pale  of  wedlock  b}-  inquiring  if  there  were 
any  such  among  the  acquaintances  of  her  Italian  friends. 

'•'-  Ah,  ni}'  good  lady,  you  who  can  save  souls  from 
hell,"  cried  the  Italian  wife,  "yes,  there's  a  3'oung  girl 
living  close  by  who  might  be  dragged  from  perdition." 

"  Do  you  know  her?  "  asked  the  baroness. 

"  She  is  the  granddaughter  of  a  former  employer  of 
my  husband,  named  Judici,  who  came  to  France  after 
the  Revolution,  in  1798.  During  the  empire  he  was  one 
of  the  best  chimne3--builders  in  Paris,  and  he  died  in 
1819,  leaving  a  fine  fortune  to  his  son.     But  the  son 


Cousin   Bette,  541 

spent  eveiTthing  on  bad  women  and  finally'  married 
one  of  the  sl3'est  of  them,  b}^  whom  he  had  this  poor 
little  girl,  who  is  about  fifteen  years  old." 

"  What  has  happened  to  her?"  said  the  baroness, 
struck  with  the  resemblance  in  conduct  between  the 
father  of  the  girl  and  her  own  husband. 

"  Well,  madame,  the  cliild,  named  Atala,  left  her 
father  and  mother  and  came  to  live  here  with  an  old 
German,  eight}'  3'ears  old  at  the  least,  named  Vyder ; 
he  writes  letters  and  does  business  for  people  who  don't 
know  how  to  read  or  write.  They  sa}'  the  old  scoun- 
drel bought  the  girl  of  her  mother  for  fifteen  hundred 
francs,  and  it  would  be  a  good  deed  if  3'ou  could  get  him 
to  marr}'  the  little  thing,  —  he  has  but  a  short  time  to 
live,  and  I  am  told  he  is  likely  to  come  in  for  several 
thousand  francs  ver}'  soon.  The  child,  who  is  a  little 
angel,  would  be  taken  out  of  evil,  and  above  all  out  of 
poverty,  which  is  sure  to  corrupt  her." 

' '  Thank  you  for  telling  me  of  so  good  a  thing  to  do," 
said  Adeline,  "  but  I  must  act  cautiouslj'.  Who  is  the 
old  man  ?  " 

*' Well,  he's  quite  a  worthy  old  fellow,  madame;  he 
makes  the  child  happy  and  has  excellent  good  sense 
about  her.  He  left  the  Judici  neighborhood  to  protect 
her  from  her  mother.  The  woman  was  jealous  of  her 
own  daughter ;  and  she  meant  to  make  a  penn}'  out  of 
her  beauty  and  set  her  up  as  a  '  Mademoiselle.'  Atala 
remembered  us,  so  she  advised  '  monsieur '  to  settle  in 
our  neighborhood  ;  and  when  the  good  man  saw  the  kind 
of  people  we  are  he  allowed  the  little  one  to  come  and 
see  us.  If  3'ou  will  get  him  to  marr}^  her,  madame,  you 
will  do  a  good  action.     Once  married,  the  little  thing 


542  Cousin   Bette. 

will  be  free  of  her  mother,  who  watches  her  and  would 
like  to  see  her  do  better,  either  at  the  theatre  or  in  the 
dreadful  career  she  wants  to  start  in." 

' '  Why  does  not  the  old  man  marry  her  ?  " 

"It  wasn't  necessar}^,  madame,"  said  the  Italian. 
"  Old  V3'der  is  not  an  absolutely  bad  man  ;  I  think  he 
is  wise  enough  to  want  to  stay  master  of  the  little  thing  ; 
whereas  if  he  marries  her,  he  is  afraid,  poor  fellow !  of 
all  that  hangs  over  the  head  of  an  old  husband." 

"  Can  3'ou  send  for  the  girl? "  said  the  baroness  ;  "  I 
will  see  her  here,  and  judge  for  myself  if  there  is  an}^ 
way-" 

The  Italian  signed  to  her  eldest  daughter,  who  ran  out, 
and  returned  ten  minutes  later  leading  a  young  girl  be- 
tween fifteen  and  sixteen,  of  a  beauty  that  was  thoroughly 
Italian. 

Mademoiselle  Judici  derived  from  her  father  that  olive 
skin  which  is  yellow  by  day  and  dazzling  under  the 
lamps  at  night,  eyes  of  Eastern  grandeur,  shape,  and 
brilhancy,  lashes  curling  upward  like  little  jet-black 
feathers,  ebon  hair,  and  the  majestic  carriage  of  the 
Lombard  women,  which  makes  a  foreigner  fanc}^,  when 
he  sees  them  for  the  first  time,  on  a  Sunday  in  Milan, 
that  these  daughters  of  the  people  are  queens  in  their 
own  right.  Atala,  told  by  the  other  girl  that  a  great 
lady  wanted  to  speak  to  her,  had  hastily  put  on  a  pretty 
silk  dress,  nice  boots,  and  an  elegant  mantle.  A  cap 
with  cherr3'-colored  ribbons  added  to  the  effect  of  her 
head.  The  little  thing  stopped  short  in  an  attitude  of 
naive  curiosit}',  examinmg  the  baroness  out  of  the  corner 
of  her  eyes,  and  greatty  surprised  by  the  nervous  trem- 
bling of  the  lady's  head. 


Cousin   Beffe,  543 

"  What  is  3'onr  name,  my  child?  " 

"Atala,  madame." 

"  Can  you  read  and  write  ?  " 

"  No,  madame  —  bnt  that's  no  matter,  because  mon- 
sieur knows  how  —  " 

" Did  3'our  parents  take  3'ou  to  church?  Have  3'ou 
made  3-our  first  communion?  Do  3'ou  know  your 
catechism  ?  " 

"  Madame,  papa  wanted  me  to  do  those  things  you 
mention,  but  mamma  would  not  let  me." 

' '  Your  mother  would  not  let  you  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
baroness  ;  "  was  she  unkind  to  you?  " 

"She  was  always  beating  me.  I  don't  know  win', 
but  my  father  and  mother  were  continuallj'  quarrelhng 
about  me." 

"Did  no  one  ever  tell  you  about  God?"  said  the 
baroness. 

The  child  opened  her  ej'es  wide. 

"  Papa  and  mamma  used  to  say, '  In  the  name  of  God  I ' 
'  The  curse  of  God  ! '  "  she  said,  artlesslj-. 

"  Have  3'Ou  never  seen  a  church?  Did  it  never  occur 
to  3'ou  to  go  inside  of  one?  " 

"Church?  Ah,  yes,  Notre-Dame,  the  Pantheon;  I 
have  seen  them  at  a  distance  when  papa  took  me  to 
Paris,  but  that  was  very  seldom.  There  were  no 
churches  in  the  faubourg." 

"  What  faubourg  did  3'OU  live  in?  " 

"  The  faubourg." 

"  Yes,  but  what  faubourg?" 

"  Wh3',  the  rue  de  Charonne,  madame." 

The  inhabitants  of  the  faubourg  Saint-Antoine  never 
call  that  famous  quarter  anything  but  "  the  Faubourg." 


544  Cousin  Bette. 

To  them  it  is  the  faubourg  pai*  excellence,  the  sovereign 
faubourg  ;  manufacturers  themselves  accept  the  word  as 
meaning  specially  the  faubourg  Saint- Antoine. 

' '  Did  no  one  ever  explain  to  you  what  is  good  and 
what  is  evil?" 

"Mamma  whipped  me  if  I  did  things  she  didn't 
like." 

' '  But  did  3^ou  not  know  you  did  wrong  when  3^ou  left 
your  father  and  mother  and  went  to  live  with  an  old 
man?" 

Atala  Judici  looked  at  the  baroness  grandly,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  The  girl  is  an  absolute  barbarian,"  thought  Adeline. 

"Ah!  madame,  there  are  many  like  her,"  said  the 
Italian  wife  who  stood  by. 

"  But  she  is  ignorant  of  ever3'thing,  even  sin  !  Good 
God  !  Wh}^  don't  3^ou  answer  me?  "  continued  Madame 
Hulot,  trying  to  take  Atala  by  the  hand. 

The  child,  displeased,  drew  back. 

"You  are  an  old  fool!"  she  said.  '-'My  father  and 
my  mother  went  hungr}^  a  week.  My  mother  wanted  to 
make  something  bad  of  me,  and  vaj  father  beat  me  and 
called  me  a  thief.  Just  then  Monsieur  Vyder  came 
and  paid  my  father's  and  m^-  mother's  debts  and  gave 
them  mone^'  —  oh,  a  whole  bagful !  — and  he  carried  me 
away,  and  my  poor  papa  cried  ;  but  he  knew  we  had  to 
sa}^  good-b3^  Well,  do  you  call  that  wrong?"  she 
demanded. 

*'Do  3'ou  love  this  Monsieur  V3'der?" 

"Do  I  love  him ? "  said  the  child,  "  I  should  think  so, 
madame  !  He  tells  me  such  beautiful  stories  at  night. 
And  he  has  given  me  pretty  dresses  and  linen  and  a 


Cousin  Bette.  545 

shawl.  I'm  tricked  out  like  a  princess,  I  can  tell  j'ou. 
I  never  wear  wooden  shoes  now  !  And  besides,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  go  hungry.  I  get  something  better 
than  potatoes  to  eat.  He  brings  me  sugar-plums,  burnt 
almonds  !  Oh,  is  n't  chocolate  good?  I'd  do  anything 
he  tells  me  for  a  bag  of  chocolate.  And  my  dear  old 
papa  Vyder  is  so  kind ;  he  takes  such  care  of  me,  he 
does  just  what  one  would  think  my  mother  might  have 
done.  He  is  going  to  get  an  old  servant-woman  to  help 
me,  for  he  says  I  must  n't  spoil  my  hands  cooking.  For 
the  last  month  he  has  earned  a  good  bit  of  money.  He 
brings  me  three  francs  every  night  —  which  I  put  awa}" 
in  a  money-box.  Tlie  only  trouble  is  he  does  n't  like 
me  to  go  out  —  except  to  come  here.  But  he  's  a  love  of 
a  man,  and  he  does  what  he  likes  with  me.  He  calls  me 
his  '  little  kitten'  —  my  mother  used  to  call  me  a  '  cursed 
little  thief,'  a  ^  viper,'  and  I  don't  know  what  all." 

*'  Well,  then,  my  child,  why  should  not  Monsieur 
Vyder  be  j'our  husband?" 

"So  he  is,  madame,"  said  the  girl,  looking  straight 
at  the  baroness,  proudly',  without  blushing,  her  brow 
calm  and  her  e^'es  clear.  "  He  told  me  I  was  his  lit- 
tle wife  ;  but  I  should  n't  like  to  be  a  man's  wife  if  it 
was  n't  for  the  sugar-plums." 

"Good  God!"  said  the  baroness,  in  a  low  voice; 
"  what  a  monster  he  must  be  to  take  advantage  of  sucli 
perfect  and  hoi}'  innocence !  To  bring  the  child  back 
to  the  paths  of  decency  ought  to  redeem  many  faults. 
I  knew  what  I  was  doing,"  she  murmured,  thinking  of 
the  scene  with  Crevel ;  "but  she  is  ignorant  of  all." 

"Do  3'ou  know  Monsieur  Samanon?"  asked  little 
Atala,  with  a  coaxing  air. 

35 


546  Cousin  Bette. 

"  No,  my  child  ;  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Really  and  truly?"  said  the  girl,  shyly. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  madame,  Atala,"  said  the  Italian 
v»'oman.     "  She  is  an  angel." 

"  Well,  my  dear  old  man  is  afraid  Samanon  ma}'  find 
him.    He  has  to  hide  ;  and  1  do  wisli  he  could  be  free." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  bless  3'ou  !  he  'd  take  me  to  Bobino,  —  perhaps 
to  the  Ambigu." 

"You  delightful  little  creature!"  said  the  baroness, 
kissing  the  child. 

"  Are  you  rich?  "  asked  Atala,  playing  with  Madame 
Hulot's  sleeves. 

"  Yes  and  no,"  replied  the  baroness.  "  I  am  rich  for 
good  little  girls  like  you,  when  they  are  willing  to  be 
taught  their  Christian  duties  by  a  priest,  and  to  walk 
in  the  right  way." 

"  What  way  ?  "  said  Atala.    "  I  walk  on  my  two  legs." 

She  looked  slyl}'  at  the  baroness  and  laughed. 

"  Look  at  madame,  here,"  said  the  baroness,  point- 
ing to  the  Italian  wife  ;  "  she  is  happy  in  her  home  ;  but 
you  are  only  married,  like  the  animals,  for  a  time." 

"  I !  "  replied  Atala  ;  "  but  if  you  will  give  me  what 
pere  Vyder  gives  me  I  should  be  glad  not  to  be  married 
at  all.    It  is  a  torment  —  that 's  what  it  is." 

"  When  once  a  woman  has  married  a  man  as  you 
have  married  Monsieur  Vyder,"  said  the  baroness,  "  vir- 
tue requires  her  to  be  faithful  to  him." 

"Till  he  dies?"  said  Atala,  with  a  shrewd  look. 
"Then  I  sha'n't  have  to  wait  long.  If  you  only  knew 
how  pere  Vyder  coughs  and  wheezes  !  Hu,  hu  I '"  And 
she  imitated  the  old  man. 


Cousin   Bette.  547 

"Virtue  and  moralit}'  require,"  said  the  baroness, 
"that  the  Church,  wliich  is  the  i-epresentative  of  God 
on  eartli,  shall  consecrate  your  marriage.  See  madame 
here ;  she  was  married  legitimately." 

"Would  it  be  more  amusing?"  asked  the  child. 

"You  would  be  happier,"  said  the  baroness;  "no 
one  could  then  blame  you.  You  would  please  God. 
Ask  madame  if  she  was  married  without  the  sacrament 
of  marriage." 

Atala  looked  at  her  friend. 

"I  don't  see  that  she  is  an}'  better  than  I.  I'm 
the  prettiest." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  an  honest  woman,  and  folks  can 
give  30U  a  bad  name,"  said  the  Italian. 

"  How  can  3'ou  expect  God  to  protect  j'ou  if  you 
trample  under  foot  all  laws,  both  human  and  divine  ?" 
said  the  baroness.  "  Don't  3'ou  know  that  God  keeps 
a  paradise  for  those  who  live  according  to  his  will  ? " 

"What  is  there  in  paradise,  —  any  theatres?" 

" Paradise,"  said  the  baroness,  "means  all  the  hap- 
piness you  can  possibly  imagine.  It  is  filled  with  angels 
with  shining  v»'ings.  God  is  there  in  all  his  glor}- ;  we 
share  his  power,  we  are  happ}"  to  all  eternit}'." 

Atala  Judici  listened  to  the  baroness  as  she  miglit 
have  listened  to  music.  Seeing  that  she  was  totally  un- 
able to  understand  her,  Adeline  thought  she  had  better 
take  the  surer  means  of  appealing  to  the  old  man. 

"  Go  home  now,  mj'  dear  little  girl,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  will  follow,  and  talk  with  Monsieur  Vyder.  Is  he  a 
Frenchman  ?  " 

"  He  is  an  Alsatian,  madame.  He  is  going  to  be 
very  rich  some  da}'.     If  you  could  onh'  pay  what  he 


548  Cousin  Bette. 

owes  to  that  villain  Samanon  he  would  return  you  the 
money ;  he  will  have  six  thousand  francs  a  3'ear  in  a 
few  months,  so  he  sajs,  and  then  we  are  going  to  live 
in  the  countrj^,  ever  so  far  awaj^,  down  in  the  Vosges." 

The  word  Vosges  sent  the  baroness  into  a  passing 
reverie ;  her  mind  reverted  to  her  native  village ;  but 
she  was  presentlj'  roused  b}'  the  entrance  of  the  chim- 
ney-builder himself,  who  came  to  give  her  the  partic- 
ulars of  his  prosperity. 

"  In  another  year,  madame,"  he  said,  ending  his  tale, 
"I  shall  be  able  to  pay  back  the  loan  you  made  me. 
I  call  it  the  money  of  the  good  God.  It  is  that  of 
the  poor  and  the  unfortunate.  If  I  make  a  fortune 
you  shall  put  your  hand  in  my  purse.  I  will  return  to 
others,  through  3'ou,  the  benefits  3'ou  have  given  to  us" 

"Just  now,"  said  the  baroness,  smiling,  "  I  will  not 
ask  3'ou  for  mone3',  but  for  your  help  in  a  good  work. 
I  have  just  been  talking  with  that  little  Judici  who  lives 
with  an  old  man.  I  want  them  to  be  married  legally, 
and  b3'  the  Church  as  well." 

"  Ah,  old  Vyder  !  He  's  a  worth3'  fellow,  and  knows 
what  he  is  about.  He  has  made  friends  alread3'  through 
the  neighborhood,  though  he  has  been  here  onl3'  two 
months.  He  is  now  making  out  m3'  bills.  Ah,  how 
he  loves  Napoleon  !  He  was  one  of  the  old  colonels ; 
he's  decorated,  but  he  never  wears  the  cross.  He 
sa3's  he  's  waiting  till  he  can  show  his  face  in  the  woild. 
He  has  debts,  poor  man  !  I  think  myself  he  is  hiding 
for  fear  of  arrest." 

"  Tell  him  I  will  pa3'  his  debts  if  he  will  marry  the 
child." 

"  Then  it  will  be  soon  done.     Come,  madame,  sup- 


Cousin  Bette,  549 

pose  we  go  and  see  him.     He  lives  close  by,  in  the 
passage  du  Soleil." 

The  Italian  showed  Madame  Hulot  the  wa3\ 

The  passage  du  Soleil  is  reall}^  the  beginning  of  the 
rue  de  la  Pepiniere,  and  it  opens  on  the  rue  du  Rocher. 
About  the  middle  of  this  recently  created  passage  (the 
rental  of  its  little  shops  being  very  low  indeed)  the  bar- 
oness observed  in  the  upper  panes  of  a  window,  cur- 
tained from  inquisitive  eyes  b}'  a  draper}^  of  old  green 
silk,  the  words,  "Public  Writer,"  and  on  the  panel  of 
the  door  a  further  notice  :  "  Business  Office.  Here  peti- 
tions are  drawn  up,  bills  made  out,  cop3'ing  done,  etc. 
Discretion.    Celerity." 

The  interior  was  somethhig  like  those  waiting-rooms 
at  the  omnibus-stations  where  people  congregate  to 
make  connections.  A  staircase  led  up  to  an  apartment 
above  which  belonged  to  the  shop  or  office.  The  bar- 
oness noticed  a  bureau  in  whitewood,  now  blackened, 
a  few  engravings,  and  a  cheap  armchair.  A  man's  cap 
and  a  green  shade  for  the  ej'es  with  a  steel  spring,  both 
extremely  dirtj',  showed  either  certain  precautions  taken 
to  conceal  his  identity  or  a  failure  of  e^'esight  on  the 
part  of  the  old  man. 

"  He  is  upstairs,"  said  the  Italian.  "I  '11  go  up  and 
call  him." 

The  baroness  lowered  her  veil  and  sat  down.  A 
heav}"  step  shook  the  little  wooden  staircase,  and  Ade- 
line could  not  restrain  a  shriek  when  she  saw  her  hus- 
band in  a  gray  knitted  jacket,  a  pair  of  old  woollen 
trousers,  and  slippers. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  3'ou,  madame?"  said  the  baron, 
gallantl3\  Adeline  rose,  seized  him,  and  said  in  a  voice 
breathless  with  emotion  :  — 


550  Cousin   Bette. 

"  At  last  I  have  found  3'on  !  " 

''  Adeline  !  "  cried  the  baron,  stupefied,  but  turning  to 
fasten  the  street  door.  ""Joseph!"  he  cried  to  the 
Italian,  "go  out  the  baek-wa}'." 

"My  friend,"  said  his  wife,  forgetting  everything  in 
the  excess  of  her  J03' ;  "you  can  come  back  to  the 
bosom  of  3'our  family  ;  we  are  rich  !  Your  son  has  a 
hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs  a  3'ear ;  your  debts 
are  all  paid,  your  pension  is  free,  and  3'ou  have  fifteen 
thousand  francs  waiting  to  be  drawn  on  the  certificate 
of  your  existence.  Valerie  is  dead  ;  she  bequeathed  to 
you  a  large  sum  of  mone}-.  Your  past  is  forgotten  ; 
don't  be  afraid !  you  can  safely  re-enter  fife.  Come 
back,  and  our  happiness  will  be  complete.  For  three 
years  I  have  searched  all  Paris  for  you ;  I  knew  I 
should  find  you.  Y'our  room  is  ready  to  receive  3'ou. 
Oh,  come,  come  away  from  this  dreadful  place !  * 

"  Y^es,  willingh',"  said  the  baron,  half-bewildered; 
"but  can  1  take  the  little  one  with  me?" 

"  Hector,  3'ou  must  give  her  up  !  make  that  sacrifice 
to  your  Adeline  !  I  promise  to  give  the  child  a  dowr^^ 
to  have  her  educated,  to  marry  her  well.  It  shall  never 
be  said  that  an^^  one  of  those  who  have  made  3'ou  happj' 
has  suffered  for  it,  or  fallen  into  disgrace  or  vice." 

"So  it  was  you,"  said  the  baron,  smiHng,  "  who  came 
to  make  me  many  her?  —  Walt  here  a  few  minutes  ;  I 
have  suitable  clothes  in  a  trunk  upstairs ;  I  '11  go  and 
put  them  on." 

When  Adeline  was  alone  she  looked  again  round  the 
horrible  den  and  burst  into  tears.  "  He  lived  here  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  "  while  we  were  in  luxury  !  Poor  man, 
how  bitterly  he  is  punished  —  he  who  was  elegance 
itself!" 


Cousin  Bette.  551 

The  Italian  came  back  at  this  moment  and  the  bar- 
oness sent  him  for  a  carriage.  When  the  man  returned 
Adeline  begged  him  to  take  the  little  Atala  into  his 
famil}',  and  to  cany  her  awa}'  at  once. 

"Tell  her,"  she  said,  "that  if  she  will  put  herself 
under  the  instruction  of  the  cure  of  the  Madeleine,  I  will 
give  her  thirty  thousand  francs  on  the  day  she  makes 
her  first  communion,  and  I  will  find  her  a  good  husband, 
some  fine  3'oung  man." 

"  My  eldest  son,  madame  !  He  is  twentj'-two  years 
old,  and  he  adores  the  child." 

Tlie  baron  came  down  at  this  moment ;  his  ej'es 
were  wet. 

"You  force  me,"  he  whispered  to  his  wife,  "to 
leave  the  only  creature  I  have  ever  known  whose  love 
could  be  compared  with  yours !  The  poor  little  girl 
is  dissolved  in  tears  —  I  cannot  abandon  her  in  this 
way." 

"  Don't  fear,  Hector;  she  is  going  among  kind  and 
worthy  people  ;  I  will  answer  for  her  good  conduct." 

"Ah!  then  I  am  readj'  to  follow  you,"  said  the 
baron,  taking  his  wife  to  the  carriage. 

Hector,  once  more  Baron  Hulot  d'Ervj',  had  donned 
trousers  and  frock  coat  of  blue  cloth,  a  wiiite  waistcoat, 
black  cravat,  and  a  pair  of  gloves.  Just  as  the  bar- 
oness seated  herself  in  the  carriage  Atala  slipped  in 
after  her  like  a  lizard. 

"Ah,  madame,"  she  said,  "let  me  go  with  3'ou. 
I'll  be  very  obedient;  I'll  do  just  what  3'ou  tell  me; 
but  don't  part  me  from  pere  V3der,  who  has  been  so 
good  to  me  ;  who  ^ives  me  such  pretty  things  —  I  shall 
be  whipped  at  home." 


552  Cousin  Bette. 

"  No,  Atala,"  said  the  baron  ;  "this  is  my  wife,  and 
we  must  part." 

"  She?  that  old  woman,  wlio  shakes  like  a  leaf!  Oh, 
see  her  head  !  " 

And  she  mimicked  Madame  Hulot's  infirmity.  The 
Italian  was  standing  bj'  the  door  of  the  carriage  and 
the  baroness  signed  to  him. 

"  Take  her  awaj',"  she  said. 

The  man  took  Atala  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  off 
b}^  force. 

"Thank  3'on  for  making  me  that  sacrifice,  dear 
friend,"  said  Adeline,  taking  the  baron's  hand  and 
pressing  it  with  almost  delirious  jo3\  "  How  changed 
you  are  !  How  you  must  have  suffered  !  What  a  sur- 
prise for  3'our  children  ;  how  happ}'  we  shall  be  !  " 

Adeline  talked,  as  lovers  talk  who  meet  after  a  long 
absence,  of  a  hundred  things  in  a  minute.  When  they 
reached  the  rue  Louis-le-Grand  she  found  the  following 
letter :  — 

Madame  la  baronne,  —  Monsieur  d'Ervy  lived  a  month 
in  the  rue  de  Charonne,  under  the  name  of  Thorec,  anagram  of 
Hector.  He  is  now  in  the  passage  du  Soleil,  under  the  name 
of  Vyder.  He  calls  himself  an  Alsatian,  does  writing,  and 
lives  with  a  young  girl  named  Atala  Judici.  Be  cautious, 
madame,  for  others  are  actively  in  search  of  Monsieur  le 
baron,  —  for  what  purpose  I  do  not  know. 

The  actress  has  kept  her  word,  and  remains  as  ever,  Ma- 
dame la  baronne, 

Your  humble  servant,  J.  M. 

The  baron's  return  excited  such  family  joy  that  he 
gave  himself  up  to  the  delights  of  his  home.     He  forgot 


Cousin  Bette.  553 

his  little  Atala,  for  one  of  the  effects  of  indulged  pas- 
sion was  to  make  his  feelings  as  volatile  as  those  of  a 
child.  The  satisfaction  of  the  family  was  however  less- 
ened b}'  the  great  physical  change  which  had  come  over 
him.  He  had  left  them  a  hale  old  man  ;  he  returned 
almost  a  centenarian,  broken,  bent,  and  debased  in 
countenance.  At  their  first  dinner,  with  luxuries  im- 
provised by  Celestine  which  reminded  him  of  Josepha's 
feasts,  he  whispered  to  Adeline  :  — 

"You  have  killed  the  fatted  calf  for  the  prodigal 
father." 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said,  "  all  is  forgotten." 

"  Where  is  Lisbeth?  "  asked  the  baron,  noticing  the 
old  maid's  absence. 

"  Alas,"  said  Hortense,  "  she  is  confined  to  her  bed  ; 
she  never  leaves  it,  and  I  fear  we  are  to  lose  her  soon. 
She  hopes  to  see  you  after  dinner." 

The  next  da3%  at  sunrise,  Victoria  was  informed  by 
the  porter  that  a  body  of  the  municipal  guard  had  sur- 
rounded his  whole  property.  The}^  were  in  search  of 
Hulot.  The  officer  in  charge  followed  the  porter  and 
presented  documents  bj-  which  it  appeared  that  the 
baron  owed  notes  for  ten  thousand  francs  to  a  usurer 
named  Samanon,  from  whom  he  had  probably  received 
two  or  three  thousand  at  the  utmost.  Victorin  paid  the 
notes  and  requested  the  officer  to  withdraw  his  men. 
'"  Is  that  the  whole? "  he  thought  to  himself,  uneasilj'. 

Lisbeth,  unhappy  enough  already  at  the  good  fortune 
of  the  family,  could  not  endure  this  additional  happi- 
ness. She  grew  so  rapidly  worse  that  Bianchon  an- 
nounced she  must  die  in  a  week,  —  conquered  at  last  in 
the  long  struggle  where  she  had  scored  so  man}^  victo- 


554  Cousin   Bette. 

ries.  She  kept  the  secret  of  her  hatred  through  the  wear\' 
ching  anguish  of  puhnonary  consumption ;  and  found 
supreme  satisfaction  in  seeing  Adehne,  Hortense,  Hu- 
lot,  Victorin,  Steinbock,  Celestine,  and  the  children,  in 
tears  around  her  bed,  considering  her  the  angel  of  the 
family.  Baron  Hulot,  restored  by  a  good  diet,  began  to 
look  himself  again ;  and  Adeline  was  so  peacefulh' 
happ3'  that  the  nervous  quiver  of  her  head  and  hands 
diminished  sensibly.  "  She  will  end  by  being  happy," 
thought  Lisbeth  the  evening  before  her  death,  as  she 
noticed  the  veneration  which  the  baron  showed  for  his 
wife,  whose  sufferings  had  been  told  to  him  by  Hortense 
and  by  Victorin.  The  sight  hastened  Bette's  end  ;  and 
her  coffin  was  followed  b}-  the  whole  family  in  tears. 

The  baron  and  baroness  Hulot,  who  had  now  reached 
an  age  when  life  needs  absolute  repose,  gave  up  their 
handsome  apartments  on  the  first  floor  to  the  Comte 
and  Comtesse  Steinbock,  and  removed  to  the  floor 
above.  The  baron,  through  the  influence  of  his  son, 
obtained  a  situation  on  a  railway  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1845,  with  a  salar}^  of  six  thousand  francs ;  this 
with  his  pension  and  the  interest  of  the  mone\^  left  him 
by  Madame  Crevel  gave  him  an  income  of  twentj'-four 
thousand  francs.  Hortense  had  been  separated  from 
her  husband  as  to  property  during  the  three  years'  quar- 
rel, and  Victorin  no  longer  hesitated  to  make  over  to 
her  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs  entrusted  to  him 
by  the  Prince  de  Wissembourg  ;  he  gave  her,  moreover, 
from  his  own  funds  an  annuit\'  of  twelve  thousand 
francs.  Wenceslas,  as  the  husband  of  a  rich  woman, 
was  never  unfaithful  to  her  again,  but  he  idled  and 
lounged,  always  unable  to  settle  to  an}-  work,  however 


Cousin  Bette.  555 

unimportant  it  might  be.  Once  more  an  artist  'hi  parti- 
bus^  he  had  great  success  in  society  and  was  much  con- 
sulted b}'  amateurs.  He  came  to  be  thought  a  past- 
master  of  criticism,  like  other  incapables  who  fall  below 
their  natural  promise. 

Each  of  the  three  households  was  thus  independent  in 
.  means,  though  the}'  continued  to  live  together  as  one 
famil}'.  Learning  wisdom  from  her  misfortunes,  the 
baroness  allowed  her  son  to  manage  her  money  mat- 
ters, and  confined  the  baron  to  his  own  income,  trusting 
that  its  limitations  might  keep  him  from  falling  back 
into  his  old  errors.  But,  by  an  unexpected  happiness, 
on  which  neither  the  mother  nor  the  son  had  really 
counted,  the  baron  appeared  to  have  renounced  the  fair 
sex.  This  tranquillity,  which  might  be  attributed  to 
his  age,  had  so  far  reassured  his  famil}'  that  the}'  en- 
joyed without  a  sense  of  distrust  the  delightful  amiability 
and  charming  domestic  manners  of  the  old  baron.  Full 
of  little  attentions  to  his  wife  and  children,  he  accom- 
panied them  to  the  theatre  and  reappeared  with  them  in 
society ;  and  he  did  the  honors  of  his  son's  salon  with  a 
grace  that  was  all  his  own.  In  short,  the  prodigal 
father,  restored  to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  was  a  con- 
stant satisfaction  to  them.  He  was  a  charrains;  old 
man,  completely  used  up,  but  still  lively  and  witty,  with 
no  remains  of  his  vice  except  that  part  of  it  which  can 
be  turned  into  a  social  virtue.  The  whole  family  lived 
therefore  in  complete  security.  Mother  and  children 
praised  the  father  to  the  skies,  —  forgetting  the  death 
of  the  two  uncles. 

Madame  Victorin  was  a  good  housekeeper,  made  so 
in  part  by  cousin  Bette's  instructions,  and  the  necessities 


556  Cousin  Bette. 

of  her  great  household  compelled  her  to  hire  a  man-cook. 
The  man-cook  required  a  scullion.  Such  girls  are  very 
ambitious  in  these  da3's  ;  their  object  is  to  get  the  secrets 
of  the  chef,  and  to  be  cooks  themselves  as  soon  as  they 
know  how  to  concoct  a  sauce.  The  consequence  is 
that  scullions  are  a  class  of  servants  who  are  contin- 
ually changing.  At  the  beginning  of  December,  1845, 
Celestine  engaged  a  stout  Norman  woman  from  Isigny 
with  a  short  waist,  red  arms,  and  a  common  face ; 
stupid,  moreover,  as  an  owl,  and  who  could  with  diffi- 
culty be  persuaded  to  abandon  the  classic  cotton  caps 
which  the  women  of  lower  Normandy  inherit.  This 
girl,  with  the  figure  of  a  wet-nurse,  threatened  to  burst 
the  calico  gown  which  enclosed  her  bust.  Her  rudd}^ 
face  reall}^  looked  as  if  cut  in  stone,  so  firm  were  its  yel- 
lowish outlines.  Naturally'  no  one  in  the  famil}^  took 
any  notice  of  the  arrival  of  this  girl,  who  was  named 
Agatha,  one  of  the  many  whom  the  provinces  send  daily 
to  Paris.  Agatha  presented  no  temptations  to  the  cook, 
for  she  was  vulgar  in  language,  having  lived  among 
carters  and  serA^ed  in  country  taverns  ;  instead,  therefore, 
of  making  a  conquest  of  the  cAe/and  getting  out  of  him 
the  secrets  of  his  fine  dishes,  she  was  merely  an  object 
of  his  contempt.  The  cook  was  courting  Louise,  Ma- 
dame Steinbock's  maid.  Agatha  considered  herself  ill- 
treated  ;  she  was  sent  out  on  errands  on  any  excuse  or 
no  excuse,  when  the  chef  was  finishing  a  dish  or  per- 
fecting a  sauce.  "  I  've  no  chance,"  she  said  to  herself, 
' '  and  I  '11  go  somewhere  else."  Nevertheless  she  stayed. 
One  night  Adeline,  wakened  by  an  unusual  noise, 
missed  Hector  from  the  adjoining  bed  ;  she  waited  au 
hour,  expecting  his  return.      Terrified,  fanc3'ing  some 


Cousin  Bette,  657 

catastrophe,  paralj'sis  or  apoplex3^  she  went  up  to  the 
attic  floor  to  call  the  servants,  and  was  attracted  to  Aga- 
tha's room  b}'  a  bright  light  and  a  murmur  of  voices. 
Suddenl}'  she  stopped  short,  horror-stricken  on  hearing 
the  baron's  voice.  Seduced  b}'  the  woman's  charms,  lie 
was  saving,  in  answer  to  her  shrewd  resistance  :  "  My 
wife  has  n't  long  to  live  ;  and  I  will  marrj'  you."  Ade- 
line uttered  a  cry,  dropped  her  candlestick,  and  fled 
downstairs. 

Three  days  later,  after  receiving  the  last  sacraments, 
Madame  Hulot  lay  dying,  surrounded  by  her  Trvliiil^'  in 
tears.  A  moment  before  she  expired  she  took  her  hiTi^ 
band's  hand,  pressed  it,  and  whispered,  "  Friend,  my 
life  is  all  that  is  left  me  to  give  ;  you  are  now  free  ;  30U 
can  take  another  wife." 

The  survivors  saw,  what  is  rare  indeed,  two  tears 
issuing  from  the  e3^es  of  a  corpse.  The  ferocit}'  of  vice 
had  worn  out  the  patience  of  an  angel,  from  whose  lips, 
on  the  borders  of  eternit}',  came  the  sole  word  of  re- 
proach she  had  ever  uttered. 

Baron  Hulot  left  Paris  three  da3's  after  his  wife's 
funeral.  Eleven  months  later  Victorin  heard  indirectly 
of  his  father's  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  Agatha 
Piquetard,  which  took  place  at  Isigny  on  the  Istof  Feb- 
ruarv,  1846. 

"  Parents  can  oppose  their  children's  marriage,  but 
children  cannot  prevent  the  follies  of  their  childish 
parents,"  said  Hulot,  junior,  to  his  friend  Popinot,  the 
second  son  of  the  minister  of  Commerce,  who  talked  to 
him  about  the  marriage. 


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